


Wholly On This Child's Abominable Misery

by sitabethel



Category: Yu-Gi-Oh!
Genre: Citronshipping, M/M, Thiefshipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-10
Updated: 2015-08-10
Packaged: 2018-04-14 00:21:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 32,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4543062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sitabethel/pseuds/sitabethel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After his village is destroyed to create dark, magical artifacts, the gods give the only surviving child a choice - he can pass on to the afterlife and end his suffering, or he can sacrifice his soul to an eternity of darkness in order to bring balance back to Ma'at's scales and thus liberate the spirits of Kul Elna from their torment. (Citronshipping / Thiefshipping)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> ***"Some of them understand why, and some do not, but they all understand that their happiness,
> 
> the beauty of their city, the tenderness of their friendships, the health of their children,
> 
> the wisdom of their scholars, the skill of their makers, even the abundance of their
> 
> harvest and the kindly weathers of their skies, depend wholly on this child's abominable
> 
> misery." ~Ursula K. LeGuin's "Those Who Walk Away From Omelas"
> 
> AN: You can find LeGuin's short story online if you want to read it. TKB reminds me of that little child locked in a closet in Omelas. This story is kind of a retelling of that basic concept. The first half is Citronshipping, and then it goes into Thiefshipping.
> 
> Disclaimers: Language, violence, cutsey-nicknames, literary references, potential feels, and male/male lemons, y'know, that stuff that makes the story fun to read.***

After watching them die, and watching them burn, and watching them cast into molds – human no more, family no more, mother and father no more, but merely baubles for the Pharaoh's court – the child collapsed. When he opened his eyes to glaring streaks of yellow-white sun, he couldn't remember his name or the name of his family. At first he couldn't remember anything, but then the smell of horses, blood, and smoke returned from the back of his memory along with the sounds of fighting and screaming and the desert wind blowing through flames. The child wailed, his voice parched and raw from smoke, but he wailed without stopping.

He looked at the sunlight and the smoke-rent bricks of his hiding place, and then he saw white wisps; he thought them ribbons of smoke leftover from the fires, but they took a shape that poorly mocked human form. The child reached out his arms, wanting to be held by his mother, wanting to be comforted by touch and the warmth of human hands. The ghost reached out, but the smoky form slipped past the child's body and into the grit and sand. The child understood, though only in a vague way, and he screamed louder because he knew he'd never be held again. The ghost keened with him, others joined the spirit in her morning. The charred ruins of Kul Elna echoed with the wails of the damned.

He cried until his stomach twisted into jagged knots. The pain forced him to roll on his belly and wretch into the sand. Only a thin trickle of pink backwash dribbled into the ground, and then the child dry heaved until he near chocked on his own sobs. The ghost swirled around him like a cat against one's ankle, trying to comfort best it could without words or physical contact. The child, dressed only in rags and the ash of dead loved ones, stumbled to his feet and braced himself against the wall beside him. He felt a fever burning through him, ravaging his body much like the flames did to his family the night before. He forced a step forward and crashed to his hands and knees. The ghost twined around him, joined by another – mother and father no more.

He couldn't cry anymore, too dehydrated and too fevered, so the child knelt in the sand with burning eyes and wished for the hand of his mother to light on his forehead despite the knowledge that it would never happen again. Other spirits joined him and whispered in the language of the dead, a language without proper words. They encouraged him to stand – family no more, neighbors no more. He stumbled through the charred skeletons of buildings. In one he found a clay jar with only part of the top broken. He grabbed the non-fractured half of the jar's clay lip, carried it to the river that wound close to the village, and filled the jar with water.

The child stumbled back to the black shell of his old hut and sat down, using his cupped hands to drink from the broken jug. Drinking straight from the river wasn't safe; the water gave life but some times it gave fever as well. Not that it mattered, he already felt his fever boiling just under his russet skin. Usually they had beer with their bread instead of water. Perhaps some jars of beer remained in cellars, but the child wasn't sure and didn't have the strength to look. Scanning the village, he only saw burnt brick and smashed doors and scattered pottery, so he sat and drank cold water from his hands and wondered if he'd get to be a ghost with the others after he died. The child curled up against the wall, sunlight washing over him from the now roofless building, and fell asleep. When he awoke he thought he, too, burned in the fire that destroyed his family. The child cried for his mother and the ghosts circled around him. After a moment the child realized he wasn't on fire; instead, his fever ate away at his body from the inside out. He drank from the jug again and shivered. He knew he should look for grain, make bread like he'd seen his mother do every morning, but his body felt melted with fever-heat. He wasn't solid enough to stand.

He summoned his  _Ka_ , a white beast a little larger than the child. He clung to the creature for warmth, tears leaking down his cheeks as he watched the ghost circling him but unable to help. Diabound wrapped his wings around the child and the child fell back into a fevered sleep. When he awoke again the stars greeted him, countless white fires burning in the cold, black sky. Heat still floated off of the child's body like wavy mirages rising from the sand, but the child shook from both chills and the cold air. He sent his  _Ka_  out, gathering wood for a fire. When the wood piled high in front of him, the last survivor of of Kul Elna used  _heka_  to ignite the wood.

He sat and watched the fire. Both Diabound and ghosts wrapped around the child. Fresh tears bathed his face, hot as his fever. The flames brought memories rushing back to him – screams – blood – the froth gathering in the corners of the soldiers' horses' mouths from their long ride – blood – screams – Kul Elna citizens formed the foundation of the Pharaohs tombs and their daggers, building tools, and farm equipment couldn't hold against spears and swords – screams – blood – fire – fire – fire – death – gold – ghosts. A high pitched whine snapped the child away from his fevered thoughts. He jerked his tear-blurred gaze in the direction of the sound.

The first song rose and fell into the cold night air, followed by another one. The youth stood, swaying on his feet and waiting for his death to come. He knew the songs of the desert well and recognized the calls of jackals. The child expected a pack, sandy brown fur and hungry bellies, but he only saw one. The creature stood twice the size of other jackals and his fur gleamed black not beige. The ghosts rushed towards the beast, doing their best to bow on the ground.

_I cannot lead them through the Duat_.

The child heard the words in his mind as he might hear speech in a dream. His eyes never left the sleek, gleaming fur or hard, golden eyes.

_They're bound to this place. To the Tablet._

The child didn't understand until he remembered the slab and the gold birthed from it – human no more. A brutish wind blew the child's bangs into his fever-bright, silver-gray eyes. The smell of ash and death clung to the wind.

_Are you strong?_

The child stood taller, but the jackal's narrow, pointed ears rose higher that the windblown locks of white hair shifting around the child's head. Still, the last survivor of Kul Elna stared at the god Anubis without flinching. He was of Kul Elna. He was strong. He nodded.

_Let's see how strong._

The jackal lunged, but Diabound intercepted and shielded the child. The beast snapped his jaws shut and the white spirit representing the child's life force slipped away from the dagded, ivory teeth before they could sink into his serpentine tail. They fought, the jackal with teeth and claws, Diabound with tail and the strength in his arms. The child controlled Diabound with the power of his will. He'd learned how to summon and use his  _Ka_  from his father, just as he'd learn to wield his  _heka_ from his mother. His father often bragged of his son, the youngest in village history to summon his  _Ka_.

Diabound and the jackal were even-matched, circling one another, attacking, and retreating in turns without one managing to hurt the other. They fought until the stars started to fade from the sky as the black of night slipped into deep indigo. Even-matched, but the child was only that, a child. Fevered, hungry, and grief-weary, the child didn't know how long he could hold out against god. The jackal feigned an attack at Diabound, the  _Ka_ blocked, but it wasn't the  _Ka_  the jackal aimed for. Instead, the beast, black fur glossy with sweat and effort, turned his claws towards the child. He turned his face, trying to dodge the attack, but the long, black claws scored two horizontal cuts on the child's cheek. The shock of pain knocked the child to the ground, too weak from fever to brace himself.

_Yes. You're strong._

He slept.

The child didn't know how long he slept, but a soft, cool hand lighted on his burning, bleeding cheek and woke him. For a moment he thought it was his mother come to sooth him after a nightmare. He'd open his eyes and be in bed, and then he'd rise and eat bread and drink bear with his family. He would wrestle and swim and race with the other boys while the village girls learned how to mill grain with sand and bake bread. Everything would be well again and he'd cry in his mother's arms until she scolded him and then he would laugh because it would be a joy to be scolded by her. His sudden change from tears to myth may even win him a fig – she always had some hidden for when he was especially good.

It was not his mother. Nothing would ever be well again, and figs would taste like ash for the rest of his days. When the child opened his eyes he saw a woman, beautiful, scented like water lilies, her face made up with kohl and her cheeks stained dark. She held an ostrich feather in her hand and looked at the child with sadness in her expression.

The child looked around and only saw dark, sullen gray. The buildings stood gray and ruined atop gray sand and under gray sky. Nothing moved, the ghosts swirling around their destroyed village hung in the air, still and motionless. The only thing that still held color and movement was the fire burning high beside him. The flames still danced though the child couldn't feel the breeze that moved them. He reached out his hand and heat washed over his palm, but when he took a step closer his sandal made no sound against the ground. The child turned back to the woman. She wore square-cut emeralds and sapphires on her throat and gold bracelets at her wrists. A crown circled her brow, a thin circlet of gold with a gold Ostrich feather in the center.

"Am I dead?" the child asked. His voice felt like a knife in his throat because of all his wailing and breathing in smoke and ash the night before. At least in the gray nothing-world he couldn't smell the charred stench of the village.

"You're dying," she said. Her voice had a no-nonsense quality to it. Like the old women in the village – she would not soften the truth to spare the child, but her words weren't unkind, merely fact.

"Death doesn't scare me. Where did the jackal go? I will follow him through the Duat."

He saw a man appear beside the woman. Sleek, black, and lean, he was also beautiful like Ma'at, but his smell was that of a beast and of newly dug earth and not of flowers.

He looked at them. For a long time he looked at them. He looked at the jewels and gold adorning their gorgeous bodies and the warm, fresh linens, and their clean, shining hair, and he hated them. He hated them for their finery, hated them for their easy manner, but truly he hated them for forsaking his village. The child's bottom lip trembled; his fists clenched into knots. "You are bad gods."

Ma'at wept, silent tears that shimmered against her painted cheeks. "We let our children choose, and sometimes they choose the ways of Isfet."

The child choked on a sob. Tears spilled down his eyes though he tried to hold them in. He tried to hold all his feelings in, but his chest was too small. "Then where's justice? The Pharaoh . . . the Pharaoh is supposed to uphold your laws. He's supposed to be your rule incarnate. Then why did royal soldiers burn—" Another angry sob cut off his words and the child smashed them away from his cheeks with clenched fists.

Ma'at used the hem of her dress to dry the rest of the tears and dried blood from the child's face. She took off his sandals and cleaned the ash from his feet before returning the shoes. Smudges of gray and red defiled the unadulterated cream of her dress when she stood back to her feet. The child held his breath. He wanted to hate them more, hate them as much as he hated the soldiers that brought the torches and the royal magicians who brought the dark spell, but he couldn't. The gods before him were manifestations of Judgment and Justice – they were all he had left.

She touched the crown of the child's head, smoothing down a lick of unruly, white hair. "There is still you and your choice."

The child shook his head, dislodging the goddess' fingers in the process. "The dead can't choose."

Anpu knelt to face the child. "You're not dead yet, but if you come with me I will guide you through the Duat and we shall judge you and take you to the lands of Aaru."

Ma'at nodded in agreement. "Kul Elna was a town of thieves, but they were still Ra's children and the law does not give the priests or magi the right to make blood and soul sacrifices to the darkness. Priest Aknadin has tipped the scales towards chaos, and all the land will suffer because of his actions."

"Good." The child's fist dug into his sides. "Good. They should suffer, too."

The jackal in human form studied the child. "In the field of reeds you'll know no suffering, child. Come with me and you'll know joy forever."

The child stared back at Anubis. "My mother . . ."

"I cannot guild them to judgment. They're bound to the Tablet. Only by returning the seven Items to their rightful place and opening up the Great Door can the souls of your clan be released."

The child's eyes burned silver, not from fever but from will. "Then that's my choice. I must gather the Items together in order to unbind their souls."

Anpu stared at the child. "If you choose to live, you will be the counterweight on Ma'at's scale, a way to eventually restore order. Many will suffer along your path of vengeance, but more will suffer if you don't interfere. I have fought with your soul and judged its strength and your will. You are strong enough, but if you free your people it will be at a great cost to you."

Ma'at lowered her head. Her long onyx hair hung across her shoulder like heavy cloth. "If you choose to live, your anger and hatred will consume you. Twice you will fight the Pharaoh for the land of Kemet, and twice you will lose, and twice you will plunge into the darkness – the womb of Isfet, the Shadow Realm. The first time you will be trapped in one of the golden relics for three millennium and the second . . ." Ma'at held the feather tight against her breast.

The child didn't falter. Chin held high, he continued to stare at the gods as if they were anyone else and not gods at all. "Tell me."

When Ma'at looked up, fresh tears collected on her cheeks. "Your spirit will be corrupted by the darkness, by the one that existed perhaps before even the Ogdoad. To ransom your village you must pay with your own soul."

Anubis nodded. "The demon-god will bind himself to you, twisting your need for redress into cold vengeance. Twice you will fight the Pharaoh over Kemet, and twice you will lose. The second time will allow the Pharaoh to open the door to the afterlife and once that door is sealed forever, the Tablet will go back to the Shadows and your people will be free of it. Then I can gather them for their Tribunal."

"But not you," Ma'at whispered. "You'll be joined in spirit to the Darkness and Anpu will not be able to guild you to the fields. This is your only chance. Do you understand, child? Your only chance to escape a fate worse than Ammit. There is peace in oblivion, but not in the Shadow Realm." A sad smile spread across her lips. "Choose death. I need you to balance my scale, but I cannot stand for you to suffer the darkness. Choose death."

The child took her hand, the one holding the Ostrich feather, and kissed it. "I'm sorry, but I want to live."

The jackal nodded his long, dark-skinned, human face. Pride showed in the gold of his eyes as he stared at the child in rags with the ash of his village clinging to his body except for his feet. "Then turn your back to me, child."

The child bowed and obeyed, leaving the warmth of the gods behind him. After three steps the living world embraced him. Sounds of wind, the fire, and locusts exploded into his ears. The sands around him glowed silver in the moonlight and the sky was as black as Anubis' skin or Ma'at's hair.

His fever was gone, cured by the gods that he first hated and now loved. Judgment and Justice, they were giving him a chance to even the scales, and to the small child, that meant destroying the royal palace as completely as the soldiers destroyed the village of Kul Elna. The ghosts encircled him like a cloak made from vapor. He reached out his hand and let them pass through him, the closest he could get to holding them. "I'll avenge you," he whispered. "I'll avenge you and save you." His palm curled into a fist. "I swear it."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ***AN: The disclaimer in the first chapter mentioned violence, and it's in this chapter, but it's only a slave-merchant getting killed, so it's not like anything important is being hurt.
> 
> Pretty obvious but Mehen = Marik.***

The sweat trickled down his brown back and chest. Each drop tickled his skin and felt like the prickly legs of scarabs, but he didn't scratch or wipe the moisture away. In meditation, will dominated body. The sweat, the cramps in his legs from hours of sitting, the sun burning his skin, nothing broke his concentration. One hour or twenty, he'd sit silent, still, focusing on the bond between his  _Ka_ and will. He didn't hear the shouts. It wasn't until the steady rhythm of the whip against flesh echoed through the desert air for a long time that the last survivor of Kul Elna opened his eyes and brought his mind back to the physical world.

The sound of whip-cracks traveled to him from the southwest, but he couldn't hear the screams of the lash's victim. Curious, the boy – now a young man – stood up and walked towards the noise. A shallow ravine waited in that direction; caravans often used it as a shortcut when delivering goods to the capital. The youth retrieved most his supplies by raiding such caravans. When he neared the ledge, he crawled on his belly to avoid being seen. The sand and rock seared his skin, but the youth didn't flinch at the pain; instead, he kept silent, eyes trained at the people below. Slaves stood chained in a long line. They kept their eyes pointed down, their faces masks of copper or bronze. Beside them, the slaver used his lash without rest on the back of a honey-skinned slave tied to a jut of rock and on his knees.

"Scream! Beg for mercy!" The slaver shrieked as he coiled his arm back for another flick of the lash.

The whip struck skin already flayed and drenched in blood, but the slave with sunlight-colored hair stayed silent. The last member of Kul Elna thought the slave dead until the slaver commanded him to scream again, but the slave only responded with a curse.

The youth admired the young slave. Even the strongest of men would weep and howl at the bite of a lash, but this slave did not. Blood flowed freely down his back and thighs and soaked the sand below his knees until it was crimson mud. The muscle on his back resembled meat more than skin, but he was resolute to die with his pride and defiance rather than succumb to the slaver.

The last survivor of Kul Elna remembered the oldest woman in the village. She was known as "old sister" and she spent her nights wrapped in flax linen, telling stories by the fire. As a girl, she had been a slave in the capital before she ran away and married into the tomb builder's village. The scars rose thick and white on her leather-brown back. She would show them, but never tell the children how she earned them. When asked about her own scars, she would tell the children of Kul Elna stories of the far gone days when Kemet owned slaves beyond count, and how these slaves escaped their servitude by dedicating themselves to a single, great, ruthless god.

The slave's god brought plagues of toads and locust to Egypt, turned the water to blood, hid Ra from his people and made the skies dark, and when all else failed their god even killed the first-born in every home in Egypt. Then they escaped beyond the sea, and then they knew freedom. He wished he knew of such a god to help him bring terror to the Pharaoh's palace, the kind of terror he felt as a child, but Old Sister didn't remember many details about the old slaves or their god. Since those times slaves had become an expensive commodity to the wealthy.

He stood up and summoned Diabound to him. Why should the Pharaoh get more slaves? The young man was tired of the slaver whipping the other young male and decided to practice fighting with his  _Ka_ instead of sitting idle and watching. Diabound took the slaver's whip and the youth jumped to the ravine-bed. Dust lifted into the air, the shallow ditch stayed dry until the monsoons brought the rains in late summer.

The slaver called out in fear at the sight of Diabound; he didn't notice the youth until the white-haired male grabbed the whip and sent the tip slicing into the slaver's shoulder.

The slaver screamed.

Another strike and the slaver begged for mercy.

Guards ran towards the youth to stop him, but Diabound intercepted and fought them. By the seventh lash, when all the guards lay dead in the dirt, the slaver pissed in the sand and offered everything he had to the youth. The last survivor of Kul Elna spit on the slaver's torn face. "You've never shown mercy to your slaves. Why do you expect better for yourself?"

"I have gold."

"So do I. More than you. A whole room of it. Stolen from the tombs my ancestors built." He struck the slaver again . . . again . . . again . . . watching the blood spray into the air as the skin melted along the whip's path.

"You're . . . you're that thief?" The slaver's words were muffled, his lips swollen where the lash cut through them. "The King of Thieves."

"Is that what they call me now? It's as good a name as any other I suppose." The young thief slashed at the slaver again.

"Please . . ." it sounded like a hiss more than a word. The young thief struck the slaver's eye and he wept blood, begging, begging, begging.

"You're not even worthy for Ammit's belly, but that's where I'm going to send you." The young thief grit his teeth as he whipped the slaver harder. His anger blinded him; he couldn't see anything but the red of blood. He could hear, though, hear the slaver wail as he lay helpless on the ground.

_Good, you bastard, good. Be helpless, as helpless as all the slaves you've ever killed, as helpless as my village when the royal guard came with their swords and spears._

"No . . . no . . . please . . ." the slaver reached out his hand, the color of raw almonds blanched in red wine. He crawled towards the young thief, sniveling, with spit and snot and tears and blood all oozing down his chin to drip into the sand.

The King of Thieves continued to lash the slaver until the gods granted the mercy the thief could not and the slaver lay bled-out in the dust. The thief dropped the whip on top of the dead slaver and turned towards the slaves. Diabound broke the chains and the thief nodded. "Run west until you meet the river. Follow the waters north until you find the nearest village."

They fled as if the youth were a demon, but it didn't bother him. White hair was unlucky and most people didn't know how to bring their  _Ka's_ into the world. He was used to men either attacking him or fleeing from him. A groan forced his attention away from the retreating slaves and back to the honey-skinned slave still tied to the rock.

The thief looked at the slave for a moment, shaking his head at the slave's wounds. He untied the slave and hoisted the boy over his own shoulder. He walked back towards the ruins of Kul Elna.

"What . . . are you going to do . . . with me?" the slave asked, choking on his own words.

The youth looked down at his bare chest and waist wrap – both coated in the slave's blood. "I imagine by the end of the night I'll be burying you. The only condolence I can give you is that your captors have already been sent to their judgments."

A gurgled sound shifted out of the slave's mouth and then silence. The thief felt the slave breathing, unconscious, not yet dead. It was better that the slave wasn't awake, once they reached Kul Elna the spirits swirled around their young thief to see what he'd brought back. He shrugged at them, not having an explanation for his actions when he sensed their puzzlement. He carried the slave to his own quarters, a cellar beneath one of the old, burnt huts. The youth lay the slave down on his stomach and poured strong wine over the lacerations. The pain woke the slave; he gasped and knotted his hands into fists.

"Still won't scream?" the thief teased as he pressed linen against the cuts. The thief used  _heka_  and pressure to stop the bleeding as much as he could. "You're suborn, I'll give you that."

"Why . . . are you . . ."

A good question. Why was he treating the slave's injuries? Even using the healing skills his mother taught him, even enhancing those arts with magic, the slave would die. That night, the next night, a week from now, in the end he'd die all the same and until then he'd only be a mouth the young thief would have to feed. Why try to save him? In truth it simply hadn't felt right to let him die in the ravine, tied to a rock. The slaver wanted him to scream but the slave remained silent. The slaver wanted him to die in the desert so the thief was going to save his life.

The thief smirked and pressed harder into the slave's back. "Why am I treating your wounds? I thought it might be nice to have a pretty slave around to pour my drinks for me."

"I'd rather die," he whispered.

"Don't worry. I'm sure the gods will hear your prayers and take you before the sun rises tomorrow."

"Then why . . . bother?"

The thief soaked a clean, flax-linen cloth with wine and dabbed at the slave's raw back. He spoke to himself more than the slave. "I stole this wine from another caravan traveling along that ravine. This batch was supposed to be for a festival to honor the Pharaoh. Why shouldn't I waste it? Better to bathe the back of a slave, I think, than to let it touch royal lips."

The slave snorted. "At least I'll die richly."

The slave's sardonic words brought a smile to the young thief's lips as he worked. First, he used jars of ointment to seal the wounds and guard them from infection. Then, he took needle and thread and sewed shut the worst of the gashes. Finally, he lined the wounds with herb-scented linen and then wrapped the slave's torso with thicker strips of cloth. With his work completed, he poured the remainder of the wine into two clay dishes and offered one to the slave.

"To your health." The thief toasted, setting the dish at the head of the sleeping mat where the slave could reach it.

Golden threads of hair covered the slave's eyes from view. He shook his head, refusing the wine.

"Drink it. It will help protect against fever."

"I don't want . . ." the slave sighed and settled his head on the mat. He lay on his stomach, wrapped in clean bandages and a filthy, blood soaked waist wrap.

The thief sipped his wine. "Gods, I thought I was willful. Just drink the damn wine or I'll force it down your throat."

The slave tried to protest, but choked when he tried to speak. He took a single gulp from the dish, his hands shaking and the red spilling down his chin as he drank. He wiped his mouth and chin and glared at the thief. "I'd rather die than be your slave."

The thief started at the slave's eyes. He had stolen jewels out of tombs and held amethysts up to the sunlight but seen only half the fire reflected in their polished surface than what he saw currently staring at him. The thief's lips parted, ready to confess that he didn't really want a slave, but the intensity of that stare made the thief's belly feel as warm and pleasant as the wine did. His parted lips curled into a smirk. "Then toast Anubis and let him take you tonight in your sleep. No use dying thirsty."

The slave continued to stare at the thief, the distrust and anger apparent in his expression. The thief shrugged in return. He scratched his scalp and looked down at his own waist wrap, stained with the blood of slave and slaver both. "I'm going to the river to bathe. I'll bring back water for you."

"I hope you drown. I hope a serpent strikes your heel."

The youth laughed, turning towards the stone stairs to go and grabbing a stone jar. "I'm sorry to disappoint you, but I already know how and when I die. I will not drown, nor will I be bitten."

He left before the slave could retort. He saw vultures circling the sky to the southwest. He nodded and grinned at them as he walked to the river. He washed in the muddy water, and summoned Diabound so his  _Ka_ could swim in the currents. Once refreshed, he sat on a rock and allowed the sun to dry his skin. The young thief dressed himself in fresh linen and carried the water back with him.

He checked on his honey-skinned slave. The other male lay on his stomach, sleeping. The thief smiled when he saw the empty wine dish beside the slave. The last survivor of Kul Elna dipped a cloth in water and set to bathing the dirt, blood, and spilled wine from the slave's body. The thief realized he forgot to ask the slave his name; he never dealt with people on a name to name basis so the thought never occurred to him. He noticed more abrasions on the slave's wrists, ankles, and sores on his feet. After cleaning his patient, the youth disposed of the slave's rags and dressed him in fresh linen. He also doctored the remainder of the slave's injuries.

"You're not worth all this trouble," he whispered to the unconscious slave. His brown fingers stroked the underside of the slave's bandaged wrist. He expected the slave's skin to be rough, worn by cruel labor and exposure. He was surprised at how soft the other male's skin felt against his fingers. The thief blinked, realizing he was touching the slave for the sake of it. He set the slave's arm back down to the mat and went to the opposite end of the room. He meditated, as he often did in the evenings. He'd have to be strong, to fight the Pharaoh.

The hours slipped by unnoticed until the thief heard the slave's voice. "What? Did you stay up all night mothering me?"

The thief opened his eyes, feeling rested as if he'd slept. He stood up and stretched and lit new flax-oil lamps. The room had a sky light that served for ventilation, but not enough of the morning light spilled through to keep the cellar from being dark. He leaned over the slave and checked his bandages.

The slave noticed the fresh linen around his waist and scowled. "You're bathing and dressing me as well? You really do want to be my mother."

The insult irked the thief. He didn't like talking or thinking about mothers. "If I'd stolen a cow from the lash I would have cleaned her flanks, but instead I stole a slave."

The slave clenched his wrapped fists. "I'm not your chattel."

"And I'm not your mother," the thief said. "Can you stomach bread?"

"I thought you said I would die in my sleep."

"You should have prayed harder." The thief crouched on the floor and went about his morning routine of using mortar and pedestal to process grain for bread.

Neither of them spoke as he worked the wheat and set the grains outside to dry. He also sieved and milled the grains into flour he could use. Sweat dabbed at the corners of the thief's brow. His mother always made it seem so easy when she baked in the mornings.

He looked up at the slave. "By the way, what's your name?"

The slave sneered. "I'm not telling you my name. You'll just use it to enslave me."

"Yes, that's right. I'm tired of doing this woman's work," the thief snapped. "It'll be better once you're back on your feet so you can do it for me."

The thief sulked as he mixed the dough. He carried the six loaves top side in order to bake them in the stone oven near his cellar. He lit the oven with  _heka_  and set the loaves within. The thief glowered at the opened cellar door. Names were connected to one's soul, of course the slave hadn't wanted to share his. To have someone's name was to have power over them. The thief would have offered his own in trade, but he'd never remembered it after that night; whatever dark spell the magi used to desecrate his people also erased every name in Kul Elna, even his own. Several spirits wrapped around him, greeting him. He smiled. Even after all these years it hurt not to touch his family. The thought of a touch made the thief remember the slave's soft skin. He clenched his hands into fists and marched back to the cellar. The spirits stayed behind as he descended.

It took a minute for his eyes to adjust to the dimmer light. He grabbed two jars of beer from a shelf and brought one to the slave who glared at him. The thief sat on the ground. "Drink."

The slave turned his face away from the jar – he couldn't move much else.

"Do you play senet?"

"Not with you I don't."

The thief smirked. "Afraid you'll lose?"

"No," the slave snapped. "No one beats me at games, especially some scrappy rouge with delusions of grandeur."

The thief laughed. "You have a quick tongue for a slave. Your brothers wouldn't even look me in the eye when I freed them."

"You say you freed them. That town you sent them to may just enslave them again and give you a share of the profit. Or maybe there was never another village and you sent them wandering in the desert to die."

"If I wanted them dead I would have killed them myself. I killed your slaver easy enough."

The slave looked away. "You did . . . thank you."

The thief opened his mouth to snap back, but then realized he'd just been thanked. He chuckled and took his senet bored from a chest. "I stole this from one of the old Pharaoh's tombs. Would you like to play on a board that once belonged to a king?"

The slave frowned, staring at his sleeping mat. "I suppose there's no use being bored as I wait to die. Might as well teach you the game."

The thief sat down, his tone sweet. "Yes, teach me. Since you're so sure of your victory, why don't we make this game interesting?"

The slave eyed the thief. "How so?"

"If I win you tell me your name."

The slave scowled. "Fine, but if I win then you'll never mention owning me again."

_No one could ever own you, my honey-skinned guest. Your will is far too strong._

The thief shrugged, feigning indifference. "Sure, why not. You better be as good as you say. I hate boring games."

"Then you're going to love this one."

The thief set up the board, and the slave propped himself on his elbows. The gold-haired slave winced and hissed as he moved.

"Careful not to tear your stitches. You can't afford to lose anymore blood."

The slave snorted and moved a pawn. The game lingered, prolonged by the thief and slave's back and forth bickering as they played. They were even matched, but the thief won. His face split wide in a grin as he leaned close to the slave's face. "So . . . what do I call you?"

The slave clenched his teeth, rage simmering in his lavender eyes. "Mehen."

"Like the god?"

Now the slave ground his teeth and looked away from the thief. "Like the game. My old master won me as a baby during a game of mehen. He raised me to play games with his son."

_And so your skin is soft._

_"_ Then how did you end up in a slave caravan?"

"I tried to escape, so they sold me."

"Idiot, why would you escape such an easy life?"

"Because I wanted to be free."

The thief sighed. He would have done the same. "I suppose that's why you were being whipped? You ran again."

Mehen nodded. He glanced back at the thief. "So, you have it now, my name. Who are you?"

"Last person to address me called me King of Thieves."

The slave snorted. "Cute. I don't know why I bothered asking."

The thief ran his finger along the game board. "In truth, I don't know my name. A royal magician stole it when I was young."

The thief didn't know why he told the truth. Perhaps for no other reason than to hear it out loud, at least once.

The slave rolled his eyes. "Asshole, if you won't tell me the least you can do is not make up a fable."

The youth stood up. "Yeah, I didn't think anyone would believe me. That's why I never told anyone what happened to me or the village."

He walked back up the stairs and pulled the bread from the oven. The thief stored four loaves into a basket and brought two down with him. He set down the loaves next to their untouched jars of beer. The thief scowled at his food, his appetite gone for the moment.

Mehen managed a sip of beer, but looked at his food with less enthusiasm than the thief did. "How about another game?"

The thief nodded and set up the pieces. He never could resist a good game.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lot of fluff/hurt/comfort going on in this chapter.

Mehen survived the week, but suffered from fevers. Some days he'd play senet and mehen with the thief, complaining about everything from too much coriander in the bread to the poor lighting of the cellar. Other days a fever would take him, and the former slave wouldn't touch his food – only stare with his jewel-enameled eyes like the thief was a game board, one Mehen didn't know the rules to.

On the ninth morning the thief baked their bread with dates instead of coriander. He thought it may keep Mehen from bitching for a morning. He saw Mehen curled on the sleeping mat with closed eyes. A half-smile crept across the thief's face as he watched his sleeping guest.

When he realized he was smiling, the thief growled and shook his head. "Wake up, bastard, I want another game of senet today."

Mehen didn't move. The thief set the bread aside and knelt beside Mehen to check his forehead for signs of fever. Before he had a chance to jerk back, Mehen attacked him. He saw the tanned blur of Mehen's arm and then a sharp, tearing sensation burned the thief's cheek. He held the side of his face, blood gushing between his fingers.

Mehen ran.

"Wait!" The thief shouted after him, but it was no use. The thief let him go, finding a cloth to press against his wound. He wasn't sure what Mehen used to cut him, never had a chance to see it, but he knew it wasn't a knife. The cut felt too jagged, caused by something coarser that tore instead of sliced. The thief took his needle and stitched himself as best he could with out seeing the injury. He thought about searching for Mehen, he but knew the stubborn bastard would fight and reopen his wounds in the process.

To kill time, the thief searched his room. He saw the weapon near Mehen's sleeping mat, a shard of clay pottery stained with blood. The thief scanned the room again and noticed one of the water jars broken in the corner of the room.

He sighed. "Serves me right for letting my guard down."

He finished cleaning his wound and dressed it, taking his time before he went upstairs. He saw the ghosts of his village circling near the edge of town. He walked to the area, knowing what he'd find. Mehen lay in the dirt, unconscious with blood seeping through his bandages. The spirits didn't harm him. They knew he was a guest in the village. The fool passed out from his injuries.

"Idiot." The thief grunted as he picked Mehen up and carried him back to the cellar. "You weren't healed enough to try and run. All you managed to do was hurt yourself."

Mehen's fever was back, hotter than bread pulled away from the fire. The thief redressed and bound Mehen's back and tried to bathe his face to quench the fire on his skin. He used herbs and  _heka_ both, but the fire inside the former slave grew hotter each hour.

By evening Mehen woke up, his gaze and speech clouded with fever. "Ghosts . . . I saw them. I saw ghosts."

"My family," the thief said, lifting Mehen up enough to make him sip wine from a saucer.

"Everything's destroyed . . ."

"Yes. Years ago."

"What happened?"

The thief looked at Mehen. He couldn't give Mehen his name, but he could tell the former slave about that night. "You wouldn't believe me."

"Your evil magician again?"

"There was more than one, and a unit of royal solders. They needed blood and sacrifice for a spell to create powerful artifacts."

"The Millennium Items . . ." Mehen whispered, eyes half closed. "Maybe I do believe you now."

The thief's head jerked at Mehen's words. "How did you know about the Items?"

"My old master spoke of them. They restored Kemet back to power."

"They cursed my village and angered the gods."

Mehen snorted. "Gods, as if the gods cared about either of our pain."

The thief remembered Ma'at's tears, and how she wiped the dirt from his feet as a child. He kept the memory to himself. "You know, you did a real good job slashing my face."

Mehen tried to smirk, but he didn't have the strength for it. "You already had two scars on that side. I figured one more wouldn't change anything."

_Those scars were a gift from Anpu._

"You could have taken my eye."

Mehen reached his arm out, stretching his fingers towards the thief's face. "Maybe I regret cutting you, but I don't regret running. I told you, I'll die before I stay a slave."

The thief leaned forward, towards Mehen. "You're so stupid. I was never going to keep you as a slave."

Mehen blinked, trying to process the thief's words. "Then why did you bring me here?"

"Because it seemed a shame to let you die in a river-ditch."

"Why do you care where I die?"

"Because you're a stupid, stubborn, arrogant, bastard – that's why."

"That's no reason."

"I'm no one so it fits that I had no reason. I just decided to try and save you because you didn't scream when that goat-fucker whipped you."

Mehen laughed, long and broken. The thief touched Mehen's face and realized his fever was worse. Mehen grabbed the thief's hand, squeezing it hard. The warmth of his touch started the thief.

"I'm really going to die, aren't I?"

The thief swallowed then nodded. "Probably. I've been using  _heka_  to treat your wounds, but your fever's getting worse."

"You did such a good job bringing me back from the dead, and I jumped right back into my grave. What a waste." Mehen nuzzled his burning face against the thief's palm. "Mmmm, your hand is cool."

The thief's mouth dropped a little. He knew he should pull his hand away and call Mehen a fever-addled moron, but . . . he didn't want to.

"You're stupid," the thief whispered, sitting closer.

Mehen only nodded in agreement, too fevered to argue back. He looked up, reaching out his hand again. "You're hair is so white that it looks cold like the moon."

The thief turned away. "Idiot, how do you know the moon is cold? You've never touched it."

"You're an idiot. The moon has to be cold because the sun is hot. They go together like Osiris and Isis or Thoth and Ma'at. Bend down, I want to touch it."

"You want to touch the moon?" the thief asked, knowing that wasn't what Mehen meant.

"Your hair."

The thief teetered for a moment, on the verge of either bending down, or jerking away. Mehen still reached out his hand, stretching for the thief's hair. His eyes were too bright, and the thief feared that this time he truly wouldn't survive the night. The young man known only as King of Thieves, sighed and shifted his body until he lay beside Mehen on the sleeping mat. Mehen's burning fingers combed the thief's hair.

"See? It is cool."

"You're just fevered."

Mehen ignored the thief. He dropped his fingers from the thief's hair, to his torn cheek, brushing his finger beside the path of the cut but careful not to touch the opened skin. "I got you good, didn't I?"

"You know, I'm not a person who forgives easily."

"I know, you rant about the Pharaoh and his men often enough, but you'll forgive me because who else will play senet with you?"

"No one after tonight. I think you're dying."

Mehen nodded. He curled against the thief's body, hiding his burning face against the thief's bare chest.

The thief stiffened. "What are you doing?"

"I'm hot and you're cool."

"But you're cuddling me," the thief tried to squirm away, but Mehen wrapped searing arms around the thief's midsection.

Mehen shrugged. "No use dying lonely."

The thief trembled. It was the first time anyone held him since before tragedy tore his family away from him. His breath sounded loud in his ears, his heartbeat louder. Something within the thief's stoic disposition broke and he curled his arms around Mehen's shoulders, careful not to put pressure on Mehen's wounds. He brushed his unbloodied cheek against Mehen's hair.

"Don't die," he whispered.

"No, I suppose I shouldn't. I'll stay alive so we can have a few more games together."

The thief nodded his head, although they both knew they'd never play another game. They fell asleep, woven together like reeds in a wicker basket. When the thief opened his eyes, the light filtering through the vent was dusky and copper. He ate a loaf of the date bread and drank beer, but Mehen could only keep down half a dish of wine. His face glowed red even in the dim light and the thief could hear how the former slave struggled to breathe.

The last survivor of Kul Elna stayed awake throughout the night, watching Mehen sleep. He tried to meditate, but he couldn't concentrate on anything except Mehen. When dawn broke, the thief lit fresh lamps and ate yesterday's leftover bread for breakfast. He chewed and drank out of habit, not tasting the food. Sweat misted over Mehen's blushing body and soaked into his sleeping mat. He woke once. The thief tried to make him drink wine, but Mehen shook his head and rejected the dish at his lips. He grabbed for the thief when he tried to move, muttering an inaudible protest. The thief looked down at Mehen, barely breathing and burning alive in his own skin.

It wasn't right, the wounds weren't festered. Each time the thief had changed the linen on Mehen's back, he noticed the cuts were healing well. Even the other day when Mehen opened the largest three gashes, the blood had flown fresh and red without any sign of infection. Nonetheless, Mehen's fever was killing him. His hands clutched with feeble strength at the thief's shoulders. He wanted to be held again. The thief ran his fingers through Mehen's golden hair, gold like the sun. Mehen was a burning sun and the thief was a cold moon. He sat against the cellar wall and pulled Mehen into his lap, careful not to put pressure on Mehen's wounds. Mehen made a content sound in the thief's arms, but didn't open his eyes or try to speak.

"Don't die," the thief whispered. He knew Mehen couldn't hear him.

The thief closed his eyes and prayed to Thoth. He willed his  _heka_  into Mehen's body, trying to break the fever. Mehen murmured in his sleep and tried to squeeze the thief, but didn't have the strength.

"Stupid asshole." The thief rocked Mehen, holding him tight. "You should have died that first night and saved me all this trouble."

_It wouldn't have hurt, had he died that first night._

Mehen's heart beat slowed. One moment the thief could feel it, a steady, rapid bird beating against his chest, but there was a single heartbeat that seemed to fail and it made all the others after it slow and weak. The last survivor of Kul Elna felt as if it affected his heart along with Mehen's. He summoned Diabound.  _Heka_  was the power of one's  _Ka_ , and his energy was strongest when he manifested his  _Ka_  in a physical form.

If his mother were alive, she could have saved Mehen. She'd been the greatest healer in the village; however, she only passed along the basic principles of healing with magic to her son before the village burned.

The thief shook, exhausted from expending most his energy in a vain attempt to save someone he shouldn't even care about.

There was one spell left for him to try. Something he'd seen in a scroll in a tomb. The thief stood up, laying Mehen back to the mat. Mehen protested with a weak moan, but kept his eyes closed. The thief touched Mehen's burning face one last time.

"Don't die while I'm gone." The thief grabbed a lamp then jogged up the stairs and out into the hot, desert air. The spirit of his mother waited near the entrance, as if to ask what was wrong. The thief ran his hand through her in acknowledgment, but then rushed to one of the other hidden cellars that escaped fire damage. Piles of gold and treasure clustered the second cellar. The thief went to a stack of books and scrolls and rummaged through them until he saw a gilded scroll. He snatched the parchment and raced back to Mehen.

The thief couldn't read, yet this particular scroll held detailed drawings as well as hieratic. He'd found it in the tomb of a court magician and stole it because he knew its worth.

The scroll described a spell that transferred part of the magician's  _Ka_  to another. It was like pouring beer from a full jar into an almost empty jar until both containers held half the drink. Only, instead of beer, it was the spell caster's life force and the vessels were human bodies. What did the thief care if he lost a portion of his life and soul? His  _Ren_ , his name, was consumed the night of the fire. His  _Ka_ , his life force, was betrothed to a demon that would take him deep into the darkness for eternity. His  _Ib,_  his heart, would be destroyed in his first battle with the Pharaoh – a battle he already knew he'd lose, the first of two fought over the lands of Egypt. Why shouldn't he give up a portion now? Better it go to Mehen who loved freedom more than life itself. Then, perhaps, a piece of him would survive through Mehen. Perhaps even after he went mad in the darkness, a piece of him would always be free.

He stared at the scroll until the images seared into his mind. He went to where Mehen slept, the freed slave's breath barely lifting his chest. He had to roll Mehen on his back. The other male moaned, his eyelashes fluttered before settling back in rest. The thief stared a moment. He never realized, until that moment, just how beautiful Mehen was. Even as he lay dying, his hair shone like sunlight and his body stretched tall and lithe against the mat.

The thief sunk down to his knees, straddling each side of Mehen's body; he matched up their chests, their palms, and their legs. Finally, the thief hovered his mouth just over Mehen's. He closed his eyes, focusing on their heartbeats and their breathing. At first his heart and breath were stronger, but the longer he concentrated on both their hearts and both their breaths the closer together they grew until they were synchronized.

The thief didn't remember falling unconscious.

The last survivor of Kul Elna groaned as he felt something press against his lips. The sharp taste of pomegranate wine invaded his mouth and the thief swallowed on reflex. He dragged his eyelids opened, blinking until he saw Mehen looming above him.

"Why aren't you in bed?" the thief muttered.

"I was hungry. The bread was stale though."

"You would complain." The thief snorted. He pushed himself up to a sitting position.

"Should you be up? You've been asleep for more than a day."

"A day?"

Mehen nodded.

The thief frowned, then looked back up at Mehen. "What about you?"

Mehen shrugged, taking a sip out of the wine dish. "In and out. My back still hurts, but not as bad as before, and –" he grabbed the thief's hand and put it on his cheek. "See? No more fever."

Mehen released the thief's hand. "What did you do? The last things I remember were fever dreams, and then I woke up with you on top of me."

"It wasn't like that." The thief scowled. "I used a spell. That's why you're up and about. Show a little gratitude."

"This spell?" Mehen held up the scroll.

"No, another magical spell that I have lying around the chamber."

Mehen threw the parchment at the thief. "You fool. This spell takes half your life."

"So what?"

Mehen's mouth dropped open. "So what? So what, you idiot, I never asked for half your life."

The thief rolled his eyes into the air, gesturing with his hand as he spoke. "Don't worry, I'm not going to use it against you. I already told you that I wasn't going to make you my slave. Consider it my gift."

"You don't give slaves gifts."

"I do whatever I want, and give whatever I want to whoever I want. Besides, you're not a slave anymore, so stop thinking like one."

"Still . . . it was too much. Why would you waste half your life on me? I don't understand. Why are you so nice to me?"

"That's a lie. I've never been nice to you."

"You killed my enemies, freed me from bondage, treated my wounds, and then sacrificed half your soul to save my life. You don't consider that extraordinary behavior?"

"Well." the thief tried to think of a counter argument. "You held me." He winced. That wasn't what he wanted to say, though it was what he was thinking. It was Mehen's arms around the thief that made it too hard to let him die.

"What?" Mehen started at the thief's words.

The thief looked away. The words were out now, and he wasn't craven enough to retract them. "When you were dying. You held me."

Mehen stood up and turned away. "I'm . . . I'm sorry. It was the fever."

The thief gripped his knees for something to hold onto. "Yeah, I figured it was only the fever, but still . . . I didn't mind."

Mehen spun around to face the thief. "You . . . didn't?"

The thief shrugged. How could he explain that morning? A child reaching up for his mother and the feeling of her spirit passing through him. The villagers of Kul Elna believed that those born with white hair were blessed for they could call their  _Ka._  Tomb builders, for the village once built tombs before desperation drove them to steal, needed strong  _Ka_  to lift pyramid stones or help set magic traps to protect the Pharaohs; however, people from other villages saw white hair as a curse, and even in the markets the merchants dropped coins into his hand, careful not to touch his palm.

How could he explain that Mehen's embrace was the first human touch he'd felt since his village burned? How could he explain how much he hungered for any touch, but especially the touch of the beautiful, freed slave – because his eyes glowed like jewels, because he carried the sun in his hair, because he played games with the wit of the gods, because he was strong enough not to scream even when lashed, and because Mehen knew pain as intimately as the thief did. He couldn't explain; there were no words for such things.

The cellar fell silent except for the soft crackle of the lamp-wicks' burning. The thief slumped back down on his sleeping mat, still exhausted from casting the spell that saved Mehen. "You're well enough to travel . . . you better leave now if you want to make it to a village before dark. Go be free."

Mehen stared at the floor. His hands bawled into fists. "Yeah, I could leave now . . . but what should I do? I don't want to be a beggar anymore than a slave."

"Be a thief. There is no life more free than mine so long as I'm not caught."

Mehen grabbed the senet board and slammed it in front of the thief. "Very well, if I win, you teach me how to be a thief."

He eyed the game pieces, and then looked up at Mehen's lavender eyes. "I can't."

"Why not?"

"I'm not a cut purse. They call me King of Thieves because I steal from dead kings. I use my  _Ka_  to get into the tombs and treasures no one else could. Your hair isn't white _._ I could teach you some magic, but few without white hair can summon their  _Ka._ "

"Your partner, then. You can get us in the tomb, and I can help you steal once inside."

He liked the idea, though he wouldn't confess it. The thief sat up. "I suppose a game couldn't hurt."

They played, and the thief won. He thought about throwing the game to let Mehen stay, but it wasn't in his nature. There were ways to win and ways not to win, and Mehen would have to win honestly if he wanted to be the thief's partner.

"Best two our of three!" Mehen shouted when he realized he lost.

The thief looked up at him, surprised by the fervor in Mehen's voice. The memory of Mehen's fingers in the thief's hair made him shudder and nod his head. "Two out of three. Is there any bread left? I feel starved."

They split the last loaf of stale date bread and drank beer as they played. Mehen won the second game, but the thief won the third. Mehen looked forsaken as he stared at the game bored. He stood to leave.

The thief's mind raced. Mehen wanted to stay, but he was too proud to ask. The thief wanted Mehen to stay as well, but he was equally proud.

"Three out of five!" the thief called before Mehen could ascend the steps.

"Are you sure?"

"You'll never make it to the next town before nightfall now. Might as well stay and play a few more games. I enjoy humbling you."

"Goat-fucker," Mehen swore as he marched back to the senet board.

"Bastard."

Mehen won the next two games. The thief ground his teeth and cursed. Despite his relief that he had an excuse to let Mehen stay, he was angry that he lost two games in a row. Mehen's grin lit up his face, defusing the brunt of the thief's anger.

Mehen leaned close. "So . . . that makes me your partner, right?"

The thief snorted. "Don't think I'm going to let you lay around here while I do all the work like when you were injured. Partner means you work as well. Milling grain, fermenting beer, and thieving, they're all part of your job."

Mehen wrinkled his face. "I'm not milling grain or baking bread. I'm not a woman."

The thief clenched his jaw at Mehen's words. "Nor am I. If you want to walk to the closest market to buy bread you're welcomed to do so, but it's easier to just mill the damn grain here."

Mehen pursed his lips. "Fine . . . I suppose we'll take turns." His mouth broke back out in a grin. He tapped the game board. "Or we could play again. Loser makes tomorrow's breakfast."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will be less fluffy. And yes, now we know how the pyramids were really built - with the Ka of the tomb builders. Bet you thought it was something ridiculous like aliens.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Is our secret safe tonight  
> And are we out of sight  
> Or will our world come tumbling down?  
> Will they find our hiding place  
> Is this our last embrace  
> Or will the walls start caving in?
> 
> (It could be wrong, could be wrong) But it should have been right  
> (It could be wrong, could be wrong) To let our hearts ignite  
> (It could be wrong, could be wrong) Are we digging a hole?  
> (It could be wrong, could be wrong) This is out of control
> 
> (It could be wrong, could be wrong) It could never last  
> (It could be wrong, could be wrong) Must erase it fast  
> (It could be wrong, could be wrong) But it could have been right  
> (It could be wrong, could be...)
> 
> Love is our resistance  
> They'll keep us apart and they won't stop breaking us down  
> Hold me  
> Our lips must always be sealed" ~Resistance by Muse.
> 
> Additional disclaimers: Cute pet names. I mean, there's citrus, I just think the cute pet names are more offensive.

Mehen never did learn to bake bread. Instead, he washed the linen and fished in the river as the fabric dried against rocks. He also kept a few goats for milk and meat. He had to build the pen outside the village because the ghosts frightened the animals. Occasionally they'd find one or more slaughtered by hyenas, but Mehen insisted that the milk was worth maintaining the fence. The thief preferred beer.

When he wasn't working, meditating, or playing games, the thief taught his new partner the basics of  _heka_  manipulation and in return, Mehen taught the thief to read. At night they'd light a fire and sit inside the thief's old, ruined hut, watching the stars. They sat close – for warmth, they said – although the fire made them both sweat. Usually the spirits would swirl around them, but that night they wandered throughout the town, leaving the roofless hut empty besides the living.

Mehen smiled and brushed a few strands of white hair away from the thief's face. "The full moon makes your hair glow."

"It's because the moon is connected to Thoth and magic."

"You and your gods. You're very pious for a thief."

The thief touched the scar on his cheek. He felt the horizontal lines, but Mehen misinterpreted the action. He graced his thumb down the long vertical scar that intersected the other two. "I shouldn't have cut you."

The thief looked up until their eyes matched. He forgot what he wanted to say as soon as he saw Mehen's irises. Mehen leaned closer and tilted his head as if to kiss the thief, but he hesitated. He backed away a drew closer, the thief mirrored Mehen's mouth, moving with him to encourage him, but their lips never touched. Not feeling Mehen's lips made the thief agitated. He tried to fill the gap between them, but Mehen backed away just enough to stay out of reach. The thief would have thought the other male was teasing him if it wasn't for the uncertainty in Mehen's eyes.

The thief thought about what little he knew of Mehen and realized why the other male fled his old life. "He was beautiful, wasn't he?"

Mehen looked confused. "Who?"

"Your master's son. The one he raised you to play games with. He was beautiful."

Mehen sighed, moving his lips away from the thief. "Yes. He had skin like shea butter and thick, black curls that fell in a mess around his eyes. And I realized I wanted to . . . and I couldn't, so I ran."

The thief nodded. He understood that Mehen couldn't act on his desires because he was a slave, and that a male slave didn't even have a chance of being a concubine. Society had carved its wrongs and rights deeper into Mehen then the lacerations healing on his back.

He glanced at Mehen. "Out here in the desert, there is no one to tell you what's evil or what's good. You use the stars to navigate the earth and your mind to navigate your soul."

Mehen snorted. "And if the spirits of your village were watching us? You think they wouldn't get upset to see that you've become like Set?"

The thief stared up at the stars. "The spirits scream, in the daylight and the darkness. They're in pain. They want justice. They think the gods have forsaken them. No, Mehen, they would not get upset if they saw me with you – they'd only scream for their lives back." The thief dropped his gaze to look at the fire. He remembered how the flames blazed through the gray air of the between-world the night he almost died of his own fever. "I'll become worse than Set one day. My soul is pledged to a god who will bind me to the darkness forever."

Mehen frowned. The thief suspected that he wanted to protest, but instead Mehen asked, "because of the gold items worn by the Pharaoh's court?"

"Yes. Their creation tilted Ma'at's scale towards destruction. It will take me 3,000 years, but I'll set it right and I'll free my clan from slavery just as I freed you." He looked at Mehen. "But there has to be a counterweight. To fix everything I need to be a lamb at the altar."

Mehen shook his head. "That's not right."

"It was my choice."

"If the gods can do so much, why do they need you? It's their mess, let them fix it."

"They need me because someone had to chose. The gods are the forces of our world so they have no independent choice. They can only act within their nature."

Mehen frowned. "Then what about my choices?"

The thief smirked. "What about your choices? You hesitated a moment ago."

"Twice you've saved me, so I'll save you. At the end of it all – when you're lost in the dark – I'll come for you."

"The sun can't go into the night to save the moon, Mehen."

Mehen glared at the thief with fire reflecting in his eyes. "You gave me your soul first. I have the better claim."

The thief couldn't help but smile. "I didn't know you wanted me all to yourself."

"Well, you're as good as a woman. You bake the bread every morning."

The thief shoved Mehen, but they still sat side by side so the action carried little force. "Go fuck your goats."

Mehen laughed, shoving the thief in return. He succeeded in getting the thief to the ground. Mehen pinned the thief's chest and smirked. "I'd rather fuck the woman who bakes my bread."

The thief's mouth dropped open at the statement. He tried to spit back a sardonic retort, but the air sputtered out of his mouth. Mehen's hands trembled on the thief's chest. His gold hair hung disheveled around his cheeks – dark coral from his thoughts. Mehen jumped to his feet. "I need some fresh air."

The thief rolled his eyes. There were barely four walls left to the hut and the air was crisp and delightful. The thief didn't argue. He gathered his sleeping hides and lay next to the fire. Sometimes they slept on mats in the cellar, but they spent many of the current summer evenings in the thief's old hut with a fire burning between them. The sound of wind lured the thief into dreamless sleep. He woke an hour later to the muffled sound of feet pounding against the sand. The thief sprung to a crouch with his dagger in hand, expecting an attack. Mehen jumped one of the crumbling walls and landed near the thief.

The thief ground his teeth, adrenaline racing through his system. "Jackass, I should stab you for waking me up."

Mehen laughed, unconcerned with the thief's threats. He brushed the gold hair from his face. "What's the point of being free if I still worry about their rules?"

"What's the point of night if not for sleep?" the thief grumbled as he stowed his knife under his sleeping hides. Before he realized what was happening, Mehen was on top of him, pinning him to the ground.

"I'm free now." He lowered his face towards the thief until his lips hovered just over the thief's mouth. He shifted his weight into the thief's pelvis. "Free to love whom I please."

"Mehen." The thief gasped at the pressure below his belly.

Mehen repeated the gesture.

The thief moaned against Mehen's lips, bucking upwards to push into Mehen's body. When he settled back to the ground he said, "free or not, call me a woman one more time and I'll bake my bread with your nuts mixed in the dough. Then we'll see who's a woman."

"An empty threat is a snake without venom." Mehen pressed their lips together, and the thief bucked his hips up once again. He grabbed Mehen's waist so he could control the friction of their grinding hips even as Mehen controlled the pace of their kisses. Their waist-wraps unraveled as their movements quickened. Their skin brushed together more intimately and the thief started panting. He released Mehen's hips, but the freed slave continued gliding his body forward and backward, strong and hard.

"Mehen," the thief whispered, "Mehen, slow down."

"No. I'm never slowing. I want this, so much."

"I know, but slow down or it'll be over."

Mehen chuckled. "Is it that good?"

The thief grunted, but refused to give a reply.

Mehen licked the thief's bottom lip. "I want to watch you finish."

For a moment the thief was stuck in Mehen's violet gaze. The sweat from their bodies reduced the friction between them and the thief couldn't bare it any longer. To stop when this far gone would be agony, but to go one would bring euphoria. He gripped Mehen's hips and hiked harder and quicker against Mehen's slick body until he felt every nerve shudder in ecstasy. He called Mehen's name into the sky as he reached his peak, and then he collapsed against the blanket below them.

Mehen drank the white sap from the thief's belly, licking the thief's tip a few times to catch the last stray drops. The thief moaned when Mehen's tongue touched him. He shoved Mehen off of his chest and pushed him to the ground so that the thief now lay on top.

"Ow, watch my back. It's still tender."

"That's what you get for waking me."

"You weren't complaining a second ago."

The thief dropped the argument in order to grab Mehen's shaft and dab his tongue along the pink tip pushing out from Mehen's darker foreskin. Mehen gripped the sleeping hides and arched his back. The thief lapped at Mehen's tip, experimenting with short and long licks and settling for long, slow, broad movements of his tongue. Then he kissed Mehen's tip. Mehen screamed and grabbed the thief's white hair. The more the thief kissed the top of Mehen's erection, the harder Mehen pushed down on the thief's hair, until the thief submitted and allowed Mehen's length to push deeper into his mouth. He hid his teeth with his lips in order for Mehen to be able to slide in and out of his mouth.

"Gods," Mehen moaned. "Ahh. Oh moon in the sky. Oh white light in the dark. Oh my sweet moon!"

Mehen shoved himself straight into the back of the thief's throat. The thief's saliva dripped down Mehen's shaft as he kept his jaw wide open and breathed rough through his nostrils. Then thick heat burst into the thief's mouth. The thief pulled back an inch on reflex, but then swallowed Mehen's seed, refusing to spit it out on the floor of what used to be his parents' hut.

Mehen gasped as if he couldn't breath and dragged his fingers through the thief's hair. The thief pulled away, wiped his mouth, and settled next to Mehen. "Your sweet moon, am I?"

Mehen pulled the covers over their bare bodies and used the thief's chest as a pillow. "Give me a name and I'll gladly call it out for all the gods to know you – as long as your lips are on me like that at the time."

The thief smirked. "Perhaps one day I'll borrow a name simply to hear you call it out."

Mehen snorted, already drifting off to sleep. The thief stayed awake, enjoying the weight of Mehen sleeping on his chest, and in the morning, the thief woke first. He tussled Mehen's hair, trying to wake the other man. Mehen grunted at the thief and squeezed him a bit.

"I have to get up," the thief said.

"No, we don't. Let's stay like this for the whole morning."

"And what will we eat?"

"Kill a kid."

"That's a waste of a goat."

"They're my goats," Mehen said.

"And shouldn't you be milking them?"

"Do you really want out of my arms that bad?"

". . . no."

"Then stay here. I'll cook stew when we get up."

The thief nodded. He ran his hands along Mehen's back. Mehen no longer wore linen bandages, although the scars glowed pink, new, and angry against his back. The thief felt giddy; he wanted to kiss Mehen and repeat the previous night's experiences all over again. At the same time, he wanted to stay right where he was and enjoy the moment. Would he remember? When he went mad in the darkness would he remember the smell of Mehen's hair and the bright morning sun gleaming off his honeyed complexion? He wanted to believe he would remember it, forever.

Mehen eventually capitulated and rose to his feet. They bathed in the river and washed their linens and wrestled on the shore while they waited for their clothes to dry. Afterward, Mehen took leeks and garlic and killed and skinned one of the baby goats for stew while the thief meditated and trained his  _Ka._

Their days fell back into the same patterns, chores and games and the occasional tomb robbing. Their nights were more often spent in the cellar where they felt alone. In the dim light they'd kiss and caress each other into a frenzy. Sometimes they'd pet each other into completion, and sometimes they'd use their mouths. The thief often woke in the darkness before sunrise with Mehen's lips on his throat and then they'd touch and kiss and press against each other all over again. Their hunger for each other matched their hunger for games, insatiable and wanton.

One day another caravan passed through he ravine in which the thief first saw Mehen. The thief summoned Diabound to scare away the merchants so he and Mehen could commandeer anything worth taking. The men rode away on the horses at the first sight of the white beast, leaving their cargo unguarded.

"Why'd you let them live?" Mehen asked.

"Because they were merchants, not slavers."

Mehen laughed.

The thief furrowed his white brows. "What's so amusing?"

"Nothing, let's see what comforts you've earned us today."

They found spices, fresh produce, more wine, and a crate filled with jars of almond oil. Mehen smirked at the crate, more interested in it than any of their other loot. "Well, this is interesting."

"It's just oil."

"Indeed." Mehen smiled as if he knew something the thief didn't.

A sound drew their attention away from the cargo. When they investigated, they found a horse tied to the back of one of the wagons. Mehen tried to untie him, but the yearling nipped at his arm.

Mehen jerked back, rubbing his bite mark. "Fine, you can stay there and starve, stupid beast."

The thief smiled. "He's awfully calm for having seen Diabound."

"Calm? The brute bit me."

"Well, you shouldn't have startled him."

"I know how to deal with horses. I've ridden them before. What about you? I haven't seen any ghost mares trotting around the village."

The thief glared at Mehen. He almost punched him, but thought of a better way to put the former slave back in his place. The thief scratched the yearling behind the ear. The horse nipped him as well, but he kept soothing the animal and ignoring the little bits. When the horse resigned to the thief's touch and quit biting, the thief untied the rope tethering the horse to the wagon and swung his legs over the horse's bare back.

"No. I never had the luxury of riding a horse because I was never a pampered, spoiled house slave tromping around with some politician's girly whelp, but watch this."

The thief gave the animal a gentle squeeze with his knees and leaned forward. The horse ran down the ravine. He summoned Diabound, to see if the horse really could stay calm with his  _Ka_  present. The horse shied away from the large, white creature, but didn't buck or rear or show signs of terror. The dry landscape sped by and the wind felt hot and free against the thief's face. The thief turned the animal around, the mechanics of riding felt ingrained into him without them ever being taught to him. It was natural, just like the first time he summoned his  _Ka._  He had the horse hurdle a boulder and land in a burst of dust. They stopped close enough to Mehen to make the other man step back. The warm desert wind dried the sweat off of the thief's chest and carried the mixed scent of horse and rider.

The thief smirked. "Maybe you don't know how to deal with horses as well as you think you do. Seems easy to me."

Mehen pursed his lips. "You've ridden before."

"No I haven't."

"Yes, you obviously have."

That made the thief laugh. "I swear I haven't."

Mehen's eyes switched back and forth between the the nut-brown horse and the nut-brown thief. "Huh, must be because you're a big, dumb, stupid beast just like the horse."

"What does that say about you? You've kissed this big, dumb, stupid beast." The thief rubbed the horse down and opened a splintered cask of water he found in the wagon, The horse drank while the thief and Mehen finished gathering their plunder. Mehen clutched the crate of almond oil and the thief, with the help of Diabound and his horse, carried everything else back to the ruins of Kul Elna.

"His name will be Retribution."

"Well, at least one of you have a name now," Mehen said, but he wasn't paying attention to the thief. He was staring at the almond oil with a hungry smirk on his face.

The thief stared at Mehen. "Do you want it for the bread?"

"Huh?"

"The oil. You seem fascinated by it. Do you want to eat it that badly?"

"No, my sweet moon. I want it to use on you."

The thief didn't glean Mehen's meaning for a moment. When he figured out what Mehen wanted the oil for, his heart dropped down to his groin and then fluttered up into his throat. He wondered how in Ammit's name Mehen learned about half of what he knew, and felt stupid for growing up in a ruined village with no one to teach him about the subtleties of human interaction – horses were much easier to deal with. Instead of showing his insecurity, he scoffed at Mehen. "I already told you, I'm not your woman. Don't think you're using it on me."

Mehen smiled as they carried his crate of almond oil back to the cellar. "Perhaps we can play a game for it?"

"No."

"Oh don't be a dried up pile of dung."

"Use the oil on your goats if you're so eager."

Mehen growled, and the thief smirked. In truth, the thief wanted to lay down and spread himself wide right there in the burning sand with Ra staring down and judging them. Once or twice Mehen had used spit to make his fingers slick and then teased the thief's insides while he pleasured the thief with his mouth, and the thief had loved it more than he could express. The thought of being inside Mehen made his mouth water, but the thought of Mehen being inside him made him shudder, short of breath and dizzy with want. Nonetheless, the last survivor of Kul Elna had his pride; he wouldn't let Mehen take him easily.

The horse nipped and snorted at the ghosts, but didn't bolt or try to flee. He didn't want to put the horse with the goats, so the thief found a hut at the edge of the village with half a roof and used that as a stable. He gave Retribution grain and water and made sure he had enough shade before he went to find Mehen.

They made a salad with lettuce, onion, and leeks from the produce they found. They finished the meal with wine and grapes. They made a game out of throwing the grapes and trying to catch the fruit in their mouths. The thief won, catching three more grapes in his mouth than Mehen. Then they played senet and Mehen won every game they played.

"Damn my luck tonight."

"Too bad you refused the bet I suggested."

"Lucky for me I refused."

The oil lamps made the shadows wave across their cellar room. Mehen's eyes stared at the thief across the senet board. "Perhaps my moon would allow a demonstration? Unless the King Thief is afraid?"

The thief glared back with his own silvery eyes. "What sort of demonstration? Because I already told you—"

Mehen lifted his hands up as if to shield himself from the thief's words. "Nothing we haven't done before. I just want to use the oil."

The thief frowned. He was a tomb robber, so he had a knack for sensing traps, but Mehen looked deliriously tempting in the lamp light with his full, thick lips grinning and his lilac eyes half lidded. The thief lay on his their shared sleeping mats and untied his waist-wrap.

"No tricks," he warned, knowing his words would encourage Mehen to try something sneaky.

Mehen winked at the thief as he poured a small amount of oil in a shallow dish. He set it aside as he straddle the thief and kissed him. They started as they always did, kissing and sliding against one another. The thief had enough experience so that the gliding alone couldn't push him over the edge, but after their breath grew rugged and eager, Mehen dipped his hand in the grass-colored oil and spread it along both their shafts and bellies. The cool, slick feel of the oil made the experience new again, and the thief gnashed his bottom lip between his teeth in order to keep from calling out. Regardless of his efforts to keep quiet, his grunts sounded loud and untamed as Mehen dragged his body forward and backward.

When Mehen rose again to dip his hand back into the almond oil, the thief groaned with protest. Mehen grinned. He hiked the thief's left leg over his shoulder and straddled the thief's right leg so he could continue grinding while using his oil-slick hand to anoint the thief's entrance. He slipped two oiled fingers inside of the thief and the thief clawed at the sleeping mats.

Mehen gasped and moaned as he worked. "Can I add another finger?"

"No tricks?"

"None. I swear. I just . . . I just want . . ."

The thief looked at Mehen. He looked fevered, but in a living way instead of a dying way; he looked like a god.

"You can."

Mehen added a third finger and then his fourth, still sliding their bodies together as he pushed his fingers inside his partner. The thief cried out, and stretched his hand out for the oil and coated his palms and fingers so he could grab their shafts and stroke both of them at the same time. He watched Mehen's face, expecting Mehen to look smug, but the freed slave crushed his eyes shut as his mouth opened in a silent scream. The image helped the thief plummet over the edge, falling, falling, falling, and somehow crashing back to their sleeping mats drenched in sweat.

Mehen opened his eyes to watch the thief cum. He withdrew his hand and continued to buck into the thief's oiled fist. He whispered between hard breaths. "I want – I want – I wish I was –"

The words stayed hidden below his tongue. The thief watched the struggle on Mehen's face, the desire and the inability to speak his feelings. The wrongs and rights of society still held a muzzle on the otherwise freed slave.

"Say it," the thief whispered. "Say it."

"I wish you were a woman," Mehen growled.

The thief slowed down his strokes on Mehen's arousal. "No you don't. You like me fine as I am. Say what you want, Mehen."

"It's a sin."

And it was, according to the priests and the temples, but the thief often wondered. Set was ridiculed for his evil deeds and his nontraditional lusts, but Set also guarded Ra from Apep every night and guaranteed a new sunrise each morning. What was evil and what was sin? If killing ninety-nine was righteous because it saved Kemet from her enemy countries, then the thief would worship Set over Horus and evil over good.

Mehen couldn't hold himself back any longer. His seed flooded onto the thief's stomach, and he dropped down on top of the thief, gasping for air. The thief held Mehen's cheeks, forcing him to look the thief in the face.

"Say it," the thief said.

"I want to be inside you. My sweet moon, I want to bury myself deep inside you." He looked away. "There, are you satisfied? I've said it."


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimers: Lemon. Sorta character death (sorta).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Take Me To Church" By Hozier:
> 
> "My lover's got humor  
> She's the giggle at a funeral  
> Knows everybody's disapproval  
> I should've worshiped her sooner
> 
> If the Heavens ever did speak  
> She is the last true mouthpiece  
> Every Sunday's getting more bleak  
> A fresh poison each week
> 
> 'We were born sick,' you heard them say it
> 
> My church offers no absolution  
> She tells me, 'Worship in the bedroom'  
> The only heaven I'll be sent to  
> Is when I'm alone with you
> 
> I was born sick,  
> But I love it  
> Command me to be well  
> Amen. Amen. Amen
> 
> [Chorus 2x:]  
> Take me to church  
> I'll worship like a dog at the shrine of your lies  
> I'll tell you my sins and you can sharpen your knife  
> Offer me that deathless death  
> Good God, let me give you my life
> 
> I'm a pagan of the good times  
> My lover's the sunlight  
> To keep the Goddess on my side  
> She demands a sacrifice
> 
> To drain the whole sea  
> Get something shiny  
> Something meaty for the main course  
> That's a fine looking high horse  
> What you got in the stable?  
> We've a lot of starving faithful
> 
> That looks tasty  
> That looks plenty  
> This is hungry work
> 
> [Chorus 2x]
> 
> No masters or kings  
> When the ritual begins  
> There is no sweeter innocence than our gentle sin
> 
> In the madness and soil of that sad earthly scene  
> Only then I am human  
> Only then I am clean  
> Amen. Amen. Amen"
> 
> AN: Hozier uses feminine pronouns, but the video for that song is a love story between two men. Usually I would save a "deathless death" reference for a Deathshipping fic, but I wrote a chunk of this story with this song playing in the background, so I'm putting it here.

The monsoons came, flooding the river and filling the ravine's with churning water. The thief walked through the storm, feeling the wind around his almost bare body and enjoying the wet, dusty smell that came before the rains. Above, the sky churned dark gray and angry. Apep had eaten the sun that morning like the golden yolk of a giant egg, but the thief knew that as soon as the tension broke, as soon as the storm raged and flooded and fell asleep satisfied, then the sun would return brighter and more beautiful than before.

He walked to the river. He untied his waist-wrap and secured it under a rock before wading out into the over-flowing waters. He only went calf deep; the river currents sucked at his feet and legs; the water whorled away in a dark silver mess of water and foam. The thief spread his arms out and raised his face towards the sky, allowing the wind to bath him.

"There you are. I've been looking for you."

The thief lowered his arms and turned to Mehen. The wind scattered Mehen's hair around his face and shoulders. He tried to hold it away from his eyes with little success. The thief bowed. "You've found me."

"Why are you out here? It's going to pour soon."

"I know. I feel twice as alive when the wind blows and lightning snakes across the sky."

"You're impossible. Come back to the village. I won't take care of you if you catch a fever."

The thief smiled. "Yes you would."

Mehen shrugged. "Maybe I would. You should still come into the cellar with me."

"No. You should come into the water with me."

Mehen eyed the swirls of gray water. "No, I don't think so."

"No? It would be fun." The thief beckoned to Mehen with his fingers. "Come on."

Mehen's lilac eyes lifted up from the river-foam and reeds to the outline of the thief's brown body. The thief stood relaxed and naked in the river, still holding his arms out for Mehen to join him. Mehen sighed and undressed. "If I fall and start to drown, you better save me."

"You won't fall. I will protect you better than Set protects Ra each night."

Mehen raised an eyebrow. "Will you now?"

Thunder growled above them. The lightning made the droplets of water on the thief's skin flash gold. Rain broke free from the clouds and pelted their arms with heavy drops. Mehen hugged himself as if cold. The rain drops brought gooseflesh to their arms; however, both the river and the wind were warm.

"I don't see why this appeals to you."

"You're about to." The thief grinned, waiting for Mehen to reach his arms.

"How so?" Mehen asked.

The thief grabbed Mehen and lifted him into the air. Mehen held the thief's shoulders and wrapped his legs around the thief's waist. "What are y—"

The thief silenced Mehen with his lips. Mehen groaned and dug his nails into the thief's russet shoulders. The rain drenched them, but the thief didn't stop. He lay Mehen down on the bank; reeds tickled their legs. When Mehen was hard and pressed against the thief's stomach, the thief began to slide back and forth.

"Well?"

Mehen grunted, smiling between their kisses. He grabbed the thief's ass and squeezed it hard, digging his fingers into the dark flesh. "I want you so bad it hurts."

The thief licked Mehen's neck. Dark, soft mud from the bank coated them as they moved and the rain stripped the soil away.

The thief leaned his mouth to Mehen's ear and whispered, "and what if I wanted you? Would you let me take you?"

Mehen's breath caught in his throat. He turned his face away from the thief and whispered, "yes. You could have me tonight if you let me take you in the morning."

It was what the thief needed to hear, and because Mehen was willing to submit to him – he would submit himself in return. The thief summoned Diabound and the creature swept them into the air and carried them, still bare and kissing, to the cellar door in the village. He had the creature place them on the stone steps that led down into the cellar before disappearing.

The thief drew his calloused fingertips across Mehen's lips. "Don't move."

He grabbed the opened jar of almond oil and ran back to Mehen. He hadn't shut the cellar doors and the monsoon air blew the dusky, damp scent of rain into the cellar. Droplets sprayed down on the stairs and Mehen, his hair damp against his naked shoulders.

The thief held up the jar to him. "Coat your fingers."

Mehen obeyed, his movements notably timid. The thief guided Mehen's fingers inside himself, three right away, and the thief coated his own hand in oil and stroked Mehen's shaft.

Mehen gasped at the thief's touch, but then asked, "shouldn't this be reversed. If you're going to—"

Again, the thief used his lips to silence Mehen. "Be quiet, I'm so tired of your unceasing talk."

Mehen opened his mouth to retort, but the thief used that moment to lift himself up and settle back down on Mehen's erection.

"Gods!" Mehen cried out as the thief started moving his hips. "Blessed gods!"

"Is this what you've been wanting?" Rain plastered the thief's white hair over his left eye and water dripped down his chest as he dug his knees into the damp stone steps for leverage.

Mehen's lips parted, ruddy and plump. Gooseflesh prickled across his honey-colored arms and shoulders. He nodded. "Ever since I first saw you."

The thief's flushed complexion deepened at Mehen's confession. He hadn't expected that Mehen's feelings went that far back, but when the thief truly thought about it, he'd wanted to be pierced by Mehen since that first moment Mehen's eyes had pierced him – bold, remorseless, and the color of thistle.

The thief rolled his abs back and forth. A smile touched the thief's lips as he watched Mehen. The freed slave reclined his head back, his chest taut, and his fingers clawing at the steps. Sweat and rain dabbled across Mehen's forehead and down his throat. The thief enjoyed the sight of Mehen, enjoyed the feeling of Mehen inside him; most of all he enjoyed being in control, on top and moving instead of lying on his back. Mehen tried to stroke the thief, but as he drew close to orgasm all he could do was hold on to the thief's shaft. The thief planted Mehen's hands on his lower back and stroked himself. Mehen dug his nails into the small of his partner's back.

"My moon, I'm going to . . ." his words dissipated into a sigh.

"Say it, my golden light, let me hear your thoughts."

Mehen groaned, his hips thrusting up and nails digging harder into his lover's darker skin. "I'm going to sow my seed inside you."

The words made the thief's belly clench tighter as his own climax stabbed through him. "Do it!"

They moaned at the same time, and when the thief rested against Mehen's chest, he realized that their hearts were beating in union. "Mehen, when I'm gone, promise you'll remember that part of my  _Ka_  lives inside you."

"I'm not apt to forget. I still think you're a fool for giving it to me."

"Then I'm a happy fool."

They stayed quiet as rain clattered against the stone steps, but then Mehen spoke. "I won't let the Pharaoh defeat you. Perhaps you would have lost if you fought him alone, but together we can even surpass the gods with our designs. Let Ma'at balance her own scales."

"Perhaps we can re-write the stars and change destiny." The thief smiled at the day dream, but that's all he saw it as – a pleasant daydream, sweet words to whisper to ease Mehen enough to fall asleep.

* * *

The years they had together were good.

The thief never imaged he'd know good years in his life.

He had Mehen pinned against one of the crumbling walls of his old hut. The fire behind them roasted his back but the cold night air cooled him. Mehen's legs and arms were wrapped around the thief to maintain balance; he'd already finished inside the thief and now the thief was taking his turn. The orange and yellow fire-light flashed against the gold on Mehen's throat, a stolen trinket that Mehen fancied too much to sell.

"Mmmm, Mehen!"

Mehen squeezed his legs tighter around the thief's nut-brown back when he heard his name called out. The thief maintained fast thrusts until he growled in Mehen's ear and then leaned against him to rest. They lay naked under the stars, their covers kicked to the side as they allowed the breeze to cool their bodies. Several spirits floated above them, but ignored them.

"Family no more," the thief whispered to himself.

"What?" Mehen opened his eyes and asked, more asleep than awake.

He turned to Mehen and brushed yellow flames of hair out of Mehen's sweat glazed forehead. "Nothing, go to sleep."

"Usually I'd tell you not to order me around, but this one time I think you have a good idea." Mehen closed his eyes and pressed closer to the thief.

The thief smiled. They argued about everything. Perhaps that was the problem with living out in the desert with no other people around. Games and work and story-telling could only occupy so much time. However, a good fight could last for days, and then they would make amends, calling each other sun and moon and making love like they'd never be able to touch each other again.

The next morning the thief milled and baked bread while Mehen fed and milked the goats and checked on Retribution. After breakfast they bathed and sparred near the river. Mehen took his practice in fighting and magic more seriously than he once had – now determined to help his thief defeat the Pharaoh and shatter Ma'at's prophecy. After fighting and meditation they drank beer while eating roasted leeks and fish. The thief kept pushing cloves of raw garlic to Mehen's lips as if to feed him, but each time Mehen slapped his hand away and scowled.

"I hate it raw, leave me be while I eat."

"It's good for you." The thief popped the clove into his own mouth.

"Don't try to kiss me."

The thief traced his lips with another clove before placing it on his tongue and chewed. "That's exactly what I wanted to do."

"I don't see how I've suffered being with you all these years."

"It's because you're stupid."

"I must be." Mehen watched the spirits drift across the town. "So . . . when are we raiding Akhennamkhanen's tomb?"

The thief stared at the sand. "When the moon fills out. I've trained all I can, done all I can, it's time."

Mehen reached out and rested his hand on the thief's knee. "It'll be okay. Gods and kings are nothing compared to us."

"Of course, my golden light."

"Stop patronizing me."

The thief smirked. "I agreed a little too quickly, didn't I? I should have argued a bit first."

"You still believe you're going to die – how can we win if you think you're going to die. Fuck you. I refuse to morn you."

The thief laughed. "Then don't."

"Fuck you."

The thief sighed. "Look at it this way, when we win you can spend the rest of our long lives telling me how you were right and I was wrong."

That brought a reluctant smile to Mehen's lips. "When you put it that way . . ."

When the moon burgeoned into a fat, white disk in the sky, the two tomb-thieves rode Retribution to the tomb of Akhennamkhanen. Because of Diabound's ability to slip through walls, they found one of the secret entrances built to allow the former Pharaoh's spirit to travel in and out of the tomb.

The thief glanced over his shoulder. "Careful where you step. I'm not as familiar with this tomb as well as the others we've robbed. There are traps that even I might not see."

"That's the third time you've told me to be careful. Stop worrying. This is just another tomb to rob."

"No." The thief shook his head. "It's more. It's the beginning to the redress of my clan."

Mehen touched the thief's shoulder. "Yes. It is that."

They walked for several minutes, their foot falls and the crackling torch the only sounds. Mehen admired the carvings and paintings on the walls of the hallway. He looked back at his thief and asked, "are we after anything specific? A heirloom or particular treasure?"

"They wear my dead family like baubles bought at the market. They judge men and proclaim themselves righteous but they don't know Ma'at because her scales have been tilted towards chaos from the weight of the blood of my village. I plan on draping my body with burial gold from this tomb before I confront the new Pharaoh." The thief stopped and looked at Mehen. "I want him to feel what I went through, even just a little. I want him to know what it's like to see death and gold worn by your enemy while the grief of loss still cuts into your chest."

"Apt, but will he understand? I doubt he knows how the Items were created."

"Aknadin will be there – he's the one who cast the spell. Let him see me and deny it."

"He will."

"I know. That's why I trained Diabound to fight them. If the Pharaoh offered justice – the death of all involved, the return of my family's remains so I could restore them to the Tablet, the destruction of the tome in which they found the spell – then perhaps I could suffer his rule. As long as the spirits of my family were freed, I could fence off what treasure we have left and run away with you to foreign lands. But that's not meant to be. The Pharaoh will hide behind the laws and opinions of his priests. He will fight me . . . and defeat me."

"I won't argue right now. Like you said, when we sit on the throne with their heads scattered across the floor I'll have plenty of time to remind you that I was right and you were wrong."

The thief laughed as he walked. "So be it. As long as we can still leave Kemet when it's all over. I've spent my whole life in a ruined village. I want to see what else is beneath Ra's sky."

"Then here's my second vow to you – since you saved me twice, once from slavery and once from death – not only shall I rescue you if need be, though I won't need to because we'll win, but I'll take you across the seas and to lands, far, far from here. You will see everywhere we can travel to."

"Mehen, I—"

A soft, slicing sound cut through the air like a whisper and ended with a ring as metal struck stone. The thief felt the air move behind him with the sound and stopped walking. "Mehen?"

"I'm sorry, my sweet moon. I stepped on a weight-triggered stone." Mehen's words sounded wrong, pained and wet.

The thief spun to look behind him, dropping his torch. "Mehen? Mehen, no. No. No, no, no." He ran to his lover.

The dull, bladed trap didn't cut through Mehen, it pinned him to the wall, but even in the darkness with the fallen torch casting distorted shadows along the stones, the thief saw that the huge blade crushed Mehen's body along the center. Blood trickled down Mehen's chin and his right hand pressed against his stomach above the blade.

The thief grabbed Mehen's cheeks, staring in the bright amethyst eyes. "You're okay. You'll be okay, I'll just use  _heka_  and—"

Mehen gripped the thief's chin with his right hand, the left crushed into wall with the rest of his body. "Not this time, my love. I don't think your gods ever meant for me to help you. Those greedy, selfish bastards, but I won't let them stop me from keeping my vows. Please . . . write my name somewhere safe, write the negative confessions so I can lie to the gods and escape Ammit. I can't – I can't be consumed by Ammit. My soul has to survive, it has a piece of you and that needs to survive . . ."

"It was suppose to be me!" the thief screamed. "Me! You were suppose to live! I wanted you to live. Don't, Mehen, don't."

Mehen used the last of his strength to kiss the corner of the thief's mouth. "I wanted you to live, too. I'm . . . sorry . . . I can't help . . . avenge your people. Wish I knew your name for my last . . . words . . . my sweet moon."

The thief crushed his body against Mehen's, shaking and clutching his lover in a tight embrace. If he could have repeated the transfer spell, he would have. If he could have sacrificed his own life to give to Mehen, he would have – even at the cost of his revenge. But there was nothing he could do except wail in grief, except cry for the first time since he was a child. Again, he lost his entire family again.

The thief clawed at the walls, splitting one of his fingernails and smearing blood onto the stone. He wailed until spent, until something snapped in his mind; he shut down then, dropping his hands to his sides and staring at the ground. Revenge – it was all he had to fill the hours left to him. He rubbed the tears away from his cheeks. He used Diabound to help him free Mehen from the trap; Mehen's body dropped to the floor. Diabound cradled Mehen's body and they continued towards Akhennamkhanen's burial chamber. The thief had nothing left. The Pharaohs couldn't hurt him anymore than they already had, and it was time he shared that grief. He'd lose, yes, but not before the Pharaoh watched every single person he ever loved destroyed.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "That's Rock Bottom – When this life makes you mad enough to kill  
> That's Rock Bottom – When you want something bad enough to steal  
> That's Rock Bottom – When you feel you have had it up to here  
> Cause you mad enough to scream but you sad enough to tear
> 
> That's Rock Bottom – When this life makes you mad enough to kill  
> That's Rock Bottom – When you want something bad enough to steal  
> That's Rock Bottom – When you feel you have had it up to here  
> Cause you mad enough to scream but you sad enough to tear"
> 
> ~"Rock Bottom" by Eminen.
> 
> Most the dialogue between Marik and Bakura is from the manga, so I can't take credit for it. I'm trying to keep events as true to the actual storyline as possible, and keeping their first conversation the same seemed important in order to achieve that. I do try to avoid using the manga as a crutch to the fic, but the scene at the end has enough quotes that I needed to mention where I got the material from.

 

* * *

 

Numb. That's all he felt, numb. The tears were dry on his cheeks. His arms hung limp at his sides. Diabound found a secret chamber in the tomb, a false room to detour would-be thieves. He placed Mehen inside and used  _heka_  to carve Mehen's name into the stones. He did his best to ensure Mehen would reach the afterlife, but he couldn't pray, not anymore, not to the gods that would take the sun out of his sky and leave him the darkness forever.

A mania seized the thief. He laughed. He laughed and threw his head back and continued to laugh. Mehen was right the whole time, the gods didn't care. Neither did he, not anymore. Nothing could hurt him now and he was going to kill everyone. He took a sack and shoved as much treasure as he could into the bag. He covered himself in jewels and baubles, gold scarab amulets and glittering, ruby rings. He donned royal garments, deep-dyed, indigo cloth for his waist and a crimson robe to wrap around his shoulders. He was going to kill everyone.

He roared, shoving Akhennamkhanen's sarcophagus to the ground. The crash echoed against the empty tomb walls. The lid showed a proud, golden face, but the corpse within was withered and small from mummification when the thief pried the coffin open and wrenched the corpse out. It wasn't enough to wear some gold – he had to carry the corpse with him, wrap it over his shoulders like a shawl. The current Pharaoh  _wore_  his dead loved ones. They  _wore_  them like trinkets, like toys, but they weren't  _Items_  – they were his people! He needed to show the Pharaoh what is felt like – to see your dead defiled and donned like an accessory. He couldn't, though, the body was too stiff and wrapped in linen. He crammed the cadaver back into the sarcophagus and found rope to tether to coffin to him, dragging would have to do.

The thief found Retribution and rode towards the palace. He was going to kill everyone. Not just the first born, no, the god of the old slaves was too kind. He was going to kill everyone in Egypt. His whole life everyone flinched away, whispered that he was unlucky, a cursed, white-haired demon-child. Let them be right. Let him be a demon. Let him be a dark god. He was going to kill everyone.

He laughed all the way to the palace.

The Pharaoh's eyes almost stopped him, for a moment.

They were purple.

Not pale and intent like dried thistle-blooms, the Pharaoh's eyes boasted a darker, more regal purple, but the color was almost enough, almost. But after that first moment passed, his anger returned and he fought.

He fought.

He killed who he could.

He gained the Ring.

And that's when the dark sank into him. An evil so intimate, so familiar, that he forgot himself – forgot the golden light who'd shared half his soul – and there was only darkness and Zorc Necrophades. And they were going to kill everyone.

Only, the thief died before he killed everyone, and it was Aknadin that became Zorc's Shadow Priest and led the Spirits of Kul Elna into battle against the Pharaoh. The thief died, and the Pharaoh also died. The first of two battles over the land of Kemet ended and there was nothing left to do except wait three thousand years.

In the darkness.

With Zorc Necrophades.

From behind, the demon wrapped his body around the thief. The creature felt warm; it shocked the thief. He expected cold, scaly flesh, not warmth. Claws slid through the thief's hair and brushed against his face, gentle.

_It hurts, doesn't it? You're already forgetting why but it hurts all the same. Give yourself to me. Give completely. I can make it stop, the pain. You'll never hurt again._

The thief closed his eyes and shivered. What good were eyes in the dark? He sank into the warmth; it felt sweet, but also like drowning.

"Gods," he whispered. He didn't know if it was one last attempt to pray or just a cry for rescue he knew would never come.

The demon caressed the thief throat with long, smooth talons.

_They gave you to me. A sacrificial piece on their game board._

And so it was, he knew, and he would follow their example and do the same. Acquiescence, it felt like the warmth of an embrace by a dark god, and he settled into the feeling. "Take it. Take my soul."

The thief felt five talons graze down his throat and across the center of his chest. He trembled and gasped as the claws pierced him. It was wrong. It didn't hurt, as soon as the claws sank into the thief's heart nothing hurt anymore, but it was wrong all the same. When Mehen pierced inside him he felt alive, but now he felt nothing. The demon inside him made everything smooth and sharp, like obsidian – glass not life. The memories of fire and death and his battle against the Pharaoh stayed, but the memories of Mehen faded to pale, unimportant images, even the color of Mehen's eyes dulled. His mind drifted in light sleep, the talons always inside his chest and squeezing, the soft warmth always wrapped around him so intimately that it would have hurt could he feel pain. That was his replacement for Diabound, a dark god coiled around his body instead of a white Ka.

Thus they stayed for three thousand years. Occasionally some one would try to measure his worth against the Ring's power, and they burned for their foolishness. It wasn't until the small, pale boy donned the artifact that the thief woke from his strange rest. The child reminded the thief of the soul he allowed the darkness to take – white, all white from head to feet, except his crepuscular eyes.

The boy was lonely, so the thief, now a spirit, gave him dolls . . . dolls filled with the souls of his friends. Dolls were better, you could keep them close and they'd never leave, never die, but his new host didn't appreciate the gifts. He fought against the spirit in a Dark Game.

That's when he met him again.

The Pharaoh, the spirit's opposite number.

He didn't understand at first, how there could be two Yugi's, but then the situation dawned on him. He wasn't the only spirit trapped in one of the Items, and the Pharaoh had worn the Puzzle. They continued their battle, though the spirit noticed the Pharaoh couldn't remember his past. The spirit lost . . . he was always meant to lose, but he didn't throw the game, and he made it hard for them to win. Too hard, his host sacrificed himself to save the others; he only survived the game because he used the Ring to transfer part of his soul into a game piece.

 _Transfer his soul_ , that made the spirit think of something from his lost life. Hadn't the spirit done that himself once? With his own power before he won the Ring in battle. The boy, Ryou, didn't put the Ring back on after their Dark Game. It gave the spirit time to think, but all he could remember was fire and death and the mad rage he felt while fighting the Pharaoh.

He'd fought with the Pharaoh twice and lost twice, so why wasn't it over? He concentrated on the fuzzy areas of his mind, but couldn't think. He kept daydreaming about the desert sun, making his skin burn, making his body sweat. He couldn't understand why such thoughts made him shiver and ache for something lost.

_"Twice you will fight the Pharaoh for the land of Kemet, and twice you will lose, and twice you will plunge into the darkness."_

It was the wrong game board. The castle in which Ryou and his friends fought Zorc wasn't Egypt. The spirit needed to bide his time until the right moment, the right battle. It had to be  _just so_  because if things didn't go according to plan then the spirit's sacrifice would be for nothing, his soul pledged to darkness for nothing. So, on Pegasus' Island, the spirit convinced Ryou to wear the Ring once again so he could help them out of the cave. He couldn't allow his enemy to die in a cave; he needed the Pharaoh to gather all the Items and return them to the Tablet.

He'd help The Pharaoh with that, too.

He pried the Eye from Pegasus' skull because they needed all the Items.

The blood reminded the spirit of a whip and of almonds blanched in wine, but he couldn't properly assemble the images into a full memory.

When they returned to Japan his host took off the Ring and yelled at it. "Spirit. I want to see you. Right now, I know I can. Yugi met his other half. Spirit, if you don't appear I will chain the Ring inside a box under my bed and you'll never get to finish your plans."

He felt the truth in his host's words and he couldn't allow it. He materialized in front of Ryou like a twisted mirror's image. He scowled as he looked at the boy. "What?"

"Who are you?"

A smirk and half a raised eyebrow. "I'm a thief and a shadow."

"Why . . ." Ryou's fists shook. "Why did you kill Pegasus?"

The spirit shrugged. "I don't know what you mean."

"Don't lie to me." Ryou opened one of his clenched fists and revealed the Eye. "I wanted to look at the replica, but as soon as I touched this I knew it was real."

"The Eye grants one wish. I granted his wish."

"Pegasus didn't wish to be dead."

"He wished to be with his lover and she's dead. Now they're together."

Ryou sighed, fatigue and sorrow stressing his features, and sat on the bed. He stared at the gold artifact in his hand. "These Items . . . they seem powerful, but they're just meant to cause suffering, aren't they?"

"Perhaps."

Ryou sighed again. He touched the Eye as if it were the cheek of a dead loved one, and that made the Spirit feel sick inside. He stared at Ryou's palm. "I shouldn't have stabbed your hand."

A single puff of sad laughter slipped past Ryou's lips. "Are you apologizing?"

"No. It's acknowledgment that I shouldn't have done it."

Ryou's eyes stayed on the golden sphere in his hands. "Do you feel anything? Happy? Sad?"

"Anger. I'm angry."

"At Yugi?"

"At the spirit inside him," the spirit said. Still standing and watching Ryou as the boy sat on the bed.

"Yugi's my friend. If you try to hurt him I'll stop you again."

"You've already died once."

"Twice, actually. I died before I got the Ring. My heart stopped for just over a minute – car accident. They did CPR. My sister and mother died." Ryou looked up at the spirit. "I saw a dark man wearing gold, he was leading my family away. He told me I could go with them, but if I chose to stay I would help save a lot of people. Of course I stayed, I wanted to help anyone I could . . . but it doesn't feel like I ever really help anyone. I think he was wrong."

The spirit blinked, his mouth ajar. The vision, Anpu and Ma'at and a world of gray where only fire moved, rushed back to him. The memory made his chest hurt, the claws he couldn't see in his chest dug deeper into his ribcage, trying to kill the fresh memories. The spirit pushed through the pain, holding on to the feeling of Ma'at's dress wiping away ash from his feet. He walked towards the bed and knelt in front of Ryou. "Me. You're here to help me."

Ryou laughed, a rueful sound laced with bitterness. "Help you? No. I'm not that naïve. You just want to use me."

"Yes, I do, but nevertheless . . ." he couldn't say it, not out loud. He felt the darkness in the Ring fighting against his own will.

Ryou lifted his head, but then sunk his eyes back down as if he were afraid to look at the spirit. "Nevertheless?"

The spirit shook his head.

Ryou handed him the Eye. "Tell me."

"I can use the powers of the Ring to show you my memories, but it will hurt."

Ryou looked up, their eyes met. "Show me, then."

Ryou cried when it was over. He cried until the sun rose and then he fell asleep at the foot of his bed, clutching the Ring to his chest.

The two of them made a deal and started working on another table top RPG – one of Egypt. Ryou no longer feared for his friends because he knew they would win. When they weren't working on the diorama, they played other games, such as Duel Monsters. Ryou played fair and with polite sportsmanship and the spirit hated it. He wanted to argue and bicker. He wanted to play with someone that would fight back.

He met Marik Ishtar during the Battle City Championship.

The spirit paused when he first saw the stranger straddled across the seat of a motorcycle. The sunlight caught his hair, igniting it into golden flames that brushed against his honey-colored shoulders. It wasn't so much his blatant beauty that distracted the spirit, it was the way the image throbbed in the back of the spirit's head as if he'd seen them all before.

The image of almonds and wine returned to him, but this time the spirit remembered killing a man with a whip, the way whole skin would split and bleed at the faintest movement of his wrists. He remembered the man begging and pissing in the dirt, but the spirit's anger had him at that moment and he didn't stop until his victim lay dead in a ravine.

_Why had he been angry? The man had nothing to do with his village._

The spirit couldn't remember.

A breeze shifted the bright, lavender material against the honeyed skin and the spirit somehow knew that, when the other man turned around, his eyes would be a truer, brighter shade of lilac. The spirit smirked. For some unexplained reason, he wanted to see those eyes sharp with ire.

The spirit called out to him. "So you're the one with a Millennium Item. Now, be a good boy and give it to me."

It worked well enough. The stranger didn't move his body, as if the spirit's presence wasn't worth the effort, but he did glance over his shoulder and gave the spirit a sharp look with eyes just as the spirit imagined.

"Who are you?"

The spirit's grin widened, a little laugh escaped his lips. He stood straight and crossed his arms over his chest. "I'm the person who's going to kill you if you get in the way of my plan."

The stranger's lips pressed into a tight, thin line. He dismounted his bike, muttered a command to his underlings, and walked towards the spirit. He stepped up beside the spirit, side glancing instead of staring at him straight on. "If this is about the Millennium Items, let's talk somewhere private. I'm sure you understand . . ."

The spirit smirked. His heart beat fast as he followed the stranger to the pier. The wind carried the scent of the water, undeniably familiar, but not quite right – just like the man standing in front of him. It should have been fresh water, heavy with the added scent of river-silt and storm. Warm, the wind, the water, it should be warm, but the breeze blowing from the pier puckered the skin on the spirit's borrowed forearms. Half a memory stirred from the lost sections of the spirit's mind. Rain, stone steps, a cellar, almond oil, flesh against flesh, his body rolling with another beneath him. He couldn't catch it all, but what he did remember felt like a hot branding iron marking his soul. The claws holding him, always holding him, twisted, demanding submission, but the former thief submitted to no one, and he kept the image in his mind.

The stranger looked full on at the spirit for the first time. "So tell me, what is it you want?"

_Pieces on a game board (best two out of three, best three out of five), the sun and moon, firelight casting two shadows on a ruined wall in a ruined village, the taste of goat milk and dense coriander bread, monsoons and almond oil and flesh on flesh – he wanted everything he couldn't remember._

He wanted to rile the stranger, to see how much the other man would fight back. His eyes, though bright, seemed to miss a certain je ne sais quoi, and the spirit wanted to verbally poke at the stranger until that missing quality returned.

The spirit clicked his teeth together, grinning. "Your Millennium Item, of course. Give it to me and I'll let you live."

The stranger smirked. A silence dragged between them until the stranger's smirk opened up into a malevolent grin. "So you're collecting them? But why?"

He shrugged, white bangs falling into his face. "Power, of course."

He explained his desire to restore the Items to the Tablet, though he skewed his motivations. Necrophades, not the thief, wanted to open the door to darkness so he could fully manifest in the world. Zorc had seen the thief's vision, knew about the thief's conversation with Ma'at and Anubis, but he didn't consider the gods, or their prophecies, a threat; therefore, he stayed content to use the thief as a pawn, and the thief was content playing the part. They wanted the same thing, even if for different reasons – they wanted to fight the Pharaoh, and they wanted the Items returned to the Tablet.

The stranger looked intrigued, but then masked his curiosity with indifference. "I see, but I'm afraid it takes more than the Items to open the Door. It seems you don't know the  _whole_  truth."

The statement, spoken as causally as a comment about the weather, caused the spirit's mouth to drop. Necrophades needed the Door opened to resurrect himself. The thief needed the Door opened in order for Anpu to retrieve the souls of his people. The spirit shoved his hands into his pockets, thinking.

The stranger took a step closer, several feet of space still separated them. "Do you know Yugi? The owner of the Puzzle?" Another step closer. "You must be planning to get rid of him eventually . . . right?"

The spirit planned no such thing. He made a deal with his host not to harm Yugi, as long as he was free to seek revenge on the spirit living inside Yugi.

But the Darkness inside him growled,  _yes._

What the spirit said was, "maybe."

"Hmmm," the stranger purred, "so who are you?"

"You can call me . . ."

_Perhaps one day I'll barrow a name simply to hear you call it out._

". . . Bakura."

"Listen, Bakura, I don't care about the Millennium Items. All I want is Yugi's life." the hair shifted over his dark shoulders as he smiled.

"Really . . ." The spirit wondered why. Did he not realize that the Pharaoh would only go back to the Puzzle without a vessel? No, there seemed to be something else. He and the stranger matched, in a way. They both seemed desperate to fight, but resigned to their inevitable defeat. The stranger wanted to fight, wanted to express his hatred, but he also wanted to die fighting the Pharaoh.

_I'll die before I stay a slave._

The stranger nodded, gripping the shaft of the Rod tight in his fist and turning away from Bakura. "If I can bury him here in Battle City, the Millennium Rod will be nothing more than a hunk of metal, but I still have use for it now."

He spun around to face the spirit, lifting the Rod up and covering half his face. "How about this . . . if you agree to help me, then after it's all over I'll be glad to give you the Rod."

"And if I say no?"

A sadistic spark caught in the stranger's eye. "You won't leave this pier alive."

"Hmph." Bakura snorted, unconcerned with the threat, but wondering if the stranger before him truly knew something more about the Tablet or if he was bluffing.

"I'll give you five minutes. Yes or no . . . it's your choice."

His choice. He made his choices long ago.

_Do I make him my enemy . . . or not?_

"What's your name?"

The stranger ran his thumb across the polished surface of the Rod. "Marik."

The name seemed off-the-mark. Everything about Marik seemed skewed, a perfect painting hanging crooked on the wall in a bent frame. Bakura wasted the five minutes staring at Marik. Trying to make the pieces of the man in front of him fit together in a different way, a way that would be right instead of wrong.

"All right, five minutes is up. Now you either die or join forces with me. What's your choice?"

_Marik, eh?_

Not quite right.

 _This man holds the key to the Door of Darkness,_ Bakura thought, trying to convince the demon coiled around his consciousness more than himself. There was enough logical reason for them to become partners.

_Partners._

But something deeper and more secret than logic drove the spirit. It was an unspoken thing, with no thoughts or language to confine the feeling struggling in the pit of his being. Perhaps it was because the feeling stirred too deeply within him – closer to Ryou buried in the subconscious than to Zorc in the forefront of the spirit's mind – and because it was something without form or definition, that Necrophades ignored Bakura's true drive to help Marik.

"If you want to hurt Yugi, the easiest way is to go through his friends."

He made a deal with his host to not hurt Yugi, but everything had its counterweight and Ryou had agreed that the spirit could use his host's body in anyway necessary for his vengeance.

"I know. I already have a plan to use them." He brandished the Rod to finish his statement.

Bakura snorted and grinned. "Their bond is too strong. They'll know you're up to no good."

Marik raised an eyebrow. "But?"

"But I have a convenient hiding place – my host."

Marik looked amused. "'Host' eh? How can you use him to hide?"

Bakura laughed, flicking a switchblade from his pocket. "Like this."

He ran his tongue against the steal edge of the blade.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The way you make me feel yeah, you got a hold on me  
> I've never met someone so different  
> Oh here we go  
> You part of me now, you part of me  
> So where you go I follow, follow, follow  
> Ohohohoh ohohohoh  
> I can't remember to forget you  
> Ohohohoh ohohohoh  
> I keep forgetting I should let you go  
> But when you look at me, the only memory,  
> Is us kissing in the moonlight  
> Ohohohoh ohohohoh  
> I can't remember to forget you  
> Ooooh  
> I can't remember to forget you"
> 
> ~Shakira ft. Rihanna  
> "Can't Remember to Forget You"

He was going to lose again and he was pissed about it. He needed one more turn to finish spelling DEATH, but Slifer had 4,000 attack points and Bakura had nothing he could use to shield himself. Marik's taunts didn't help him think, not that thinking would change the simple math of 4,000 minus 3,500.

"Don't worry, Bakura." Marik snickered as the Pharaoh prepared to attack. Bakura's partner grinned at him, glancing at him sideways in that annoying, superior way of his. "Watch me make this work to our advantage."

"What?"

Before Bakura could ask anything further, Rishid interfered. The hood of his violet cloak covered half his face as he lifted up a false Rod and gave a speech worthy of his role as a false Marik. Neither could fool Bakura because neither gleamed as bright, or as cruel, as the originals; however, the wind tugged at Rishid's cloak and lifted purple into the night sky and the others drank in the illusions like sour plum wine. The image distracted Bakura enough that he didn't realize Marik's plan until it was too late and Ryou knelt on the platform, gripping his arm in pain.

What Marik didn't realize was that Ryou was aware of everything Bakura and Marik did. True, they were controlling him, but that made his host no less aware of the situation as the thief himself was aware though Zorc partially controlled  _him_. All Ryou had to do was point at _Namu_  and say a few words and Marik's plan would be over, but Ryou played dumb. He played the part of innocent host far better than Rishid played villain.

"So that's your game, Marik," Bakura muttered as he watched the drama unfold. "You've tied Yugi's hands."

Although Bakura was only a spirit standing outside Ryou's body, Marik could still hear and see him. He smiled at Bakura. "As per our agreement."

Ryou grit his teeth in sincere pain. The wind tossed his hair around his face as blood unfurled down his lace-white arm.

The spirit, now called Bakura, stared at his host and frowned. Bakura wasn't used to empathy, but that's what he felt when he stared at his host. A host who met Anubis and chose to live instead of die. A host who sacrificed himself for others without thinking. He growled, or perhaps it was Zorc who growled because Bakura was about to do something incredibly stupid and he'd let nothing stop him – not even Necrophades. "but still . . ."

Bakura had nine seconds to act.

"Even I have ways I like to win and ways I hate to win!" he screamed, feeling more like himself at that moment then he had in over 3,000 years.

Marik turned to him, utter shock on his face.

"Stay out of this, Marik," Bakura warned as he took back control from his host.

Bakura gave the Pharaoh a mocking grin. He knew he had seven seconds to manipulate the other Yugi into attacking. "Yugi, I'll let you win this time! Attack me! Don't worry, your little gaming buddy won't die! So strike!"

Five seconds. He stretched his arms out wide, daring the Pharaoh to attack.

Three seconds. He shouted, "Do it, Yugi!" and laughed – laughed as if getting attacked by god was the funniest thing one could do.

At the last second the other Yugi cast Thunder Force, even as Bakura still laughed into the black sky and cold wind.

 _You protected me . . . why?_ Ryou's voice sounded like a whisper in the back of their mind as the blast shot towards them.

_You covered for me. That wasn't part of our deal._

_You're pretty honorable for an evil spirit, you know that?_

_You're still useful, that's all._

Ryou laughed, a soft chuckle in their mind and not the loud, mad cackle spilling from their mouth.  _Do you remember Marik yet? I recognized him right away from the memories you showed me, but you're acting like you can't remember him._

_What?_

Before Ryou answered, Slifer's attack engulfed them. The Ring dropped to the ground and Bakura was left alone . . . with Necrophades.

He saw the red glow of eyes staring at him in the dark. It was the first time he'd looked the demon in the face. Zorc usually crouched behind the spirit of the thief, whispering in his ear, embracing him, keeping his talons buried deep in the spirit's metaphorical heart.

_Do you remember Marik yet?_

What had Ryou meant?

He didn't flinch or look away from the red eyes; they were dark like old, clotted blood. "I couldn't risk it," Bakura said. "The boy is still too useful to us. We need him until we have all the Items."

_I recognized him right away._

What had Ryou meant?

Zorc growled. Bakura felt his spirit being pushed down into the darkness, as if Necrophades had pushed him on his back. The red eyes floated over him, his other features too black for the thief to distinguish them from the rest of the dark. He felt claws petting his hair; the tips grazed against his scalp with slow and even strokes.

" _I told you to give yourself to me."_

"I did."

" _Yes, you did, but it seems my little thief is trying to steal back the gift he gave me_."

Bakura sneered at the darkness and at the dark-red eyes. "If you're not strong enough to stop me, then you're not strong enough to defeat the Pharaoh."

" _I've been sweet, but it doesn't have to be sweet._ "

The claws gliding across Bakura's scalp furrowed deeper, straight into his mind. The pain was blinding, white, shrill, and unbearable. He wanted to scream, to beg an end to it, but he ground his teeth into his bottom lip, feeling blood that didn't exist pour over his chin. The agony swelled and expanded into his entire being; it thrummed inside him like a high pitched noise, but he couldn't scream – he couldn't scream – he couldn't scream because –

_Because Mehen never screamed when the slaver whipped him._

"Mehen," Bakura whispered the name, tasting blood that didn't physically exist as it filled his mouth with the tang of iron. "Mehen."

" _That part of you is_ mine."

It wasn't true.  _That_  part of him belonged to Mehen.

Bakura wouldn't scream, but he chanted Mehen's name like a mantra, like the prayers he could no longer give to the gods.

He opened his eyes shouting Mehen's name, and started when he saw Marik looking down at him. Only, something was wrong; Marik looked ethereal, transparent. He noticed Anzu sitting beside the bed.

"Why?" he whispered, his voice dry and weak. Zorc still held his mind and now he knew that the embrace of a demon-god could be intimate and warm, or intrusive and razor-sharp. It took all of his will to keep control of Ryou's body while the demon thrust his talons deeper into his mind, trying to claw the memories of Mehen out of Bakura's thoughts.

Marik didn't seem to notice. He waved Anzu off with a brush of his hand. "Don't mind her, she's just a doll."

_Do you remember Marik yet?_

"Mehen." Bakura closed his eyes and sighed. He wanted to kiss Marik. He wanted to kiss him, and kiss him, and cry against his shoulder, and hold him, and refuse to let go. His golden sun had died in his arms 3,000 years ago, but here he was again, reincarnated and still trying to help him defeat the Pharaoh.

But something was wrong.

"Who's Mehen?" Marik asked. "I think i've heard that name before . . . You were calling it out in your sleep just now."

Bakura answered Marik's question with one of his own. "Where's your body? Why are you using the girl?"

Bakura still lay in bed. Marik sat beside him on the edge and stared at the sheets to avoid eye contact. "Look. I know I've been a bit autocratic, but . . . I need your help with something."

Bakura gave him a dark chuckle. "Careful, you almost sound like you're about to ask nicely instead of giving me fives minutes to agree or perish."

Marik clenched his hands into fists, his mouth a narrow frown. "This isn't easy for me."

"No, I'm sure you're used to waving your magic wand and forcing people to help you. It wouldn't be easy for you to ask me, would it?"

Marik stood up. "I don't know why I bothered coming here. Never mind."

"Wait." Bakura forced himself up to a sitting position. Every nerve wailed with a deep-set hurt, both his body and his psyche. "I still need the Rod, and I'm assuming it's with your body."

Marik stopped and snorted. He stood with his back towards Bakura. "You need my body as well. The secrets carved on my back are the missing puzzle piece to the power you're after."

That was the excuse Bakura needed for Zorc to lighten the pressure of his claws. Bakura couldn't act as a pawn if he was too damaged to move across the squares of the board. Once again they had different motives for the same action, Zorc needed to help Marik if he wanted his resurrection, and Bakura needed no reason – he never had.

Bakura raised an eyebrow. "So?"

Marik sighed, his shoulders dipped down an inch as some of the tension left them. He turned back around to face Bakura but still avoided his gaze. "How much do you know? About the Items?"

"Enough."

_Family no more._

Marik nodded. "And about the Tomb Keepers?"

He knew a little. An off-shot branch of them resided in the rebuilt town of Kul Elna. They had guarded the Ring and several other Items along with the Millennium Tablet hidden in a temple that once used to be a cellar for beer and onions. Bakura nodded. "Tomb Guardian, so that's how you know so much, about the Items and the Door . . . and that's why you're so bitter."

"My whole life I was an object, a piece of scrap paper for the Pharaoh's memories. Tell me, would you be bitter?"

Bakura touched his cheek on reflex and ran his fingers along a scar that didn't exist. The memory of Mehen, wanting so desperately to be free, slashing Bakura's face with a pottery shard came back to him – followed by the feeling of Mehen's fingers in his white hair and their first embrace. Slaves were objects, the property of their masters, and Mehen hated it so much that three times he tried to escape, even at the cost of his life. Bakura dropped his hand away from Ryou's cheek and looked at Marik. "I'd be furious."

"Furious, yes, I was. I was so angry that during my initiation I snapped, mentally, in half. That other half is in control now. If you want the Rod, if you want the secret on my back, you're going to have to fight that darker half of myself."

Bakura snorted. He could tell Marik wasn't telling him everything; his golden sun never did express himself easily, but Bakura knew how to goad him. "Perhaps I should just switch partners."

"Don't—" Marik winced after the word. His jaw clenched and he screwed his eyes shut, blatantly angry with himself for the outburst.

Bakura smiled. "Why not?"

Marik exhaled, opening his eyes, staring at the floor, and clenching his hands into fists. "He's going to kill Rishid." Marik looked up to meet Bakura's gaze. "I've already lost my parents. My siblings are the only thing I have left in this world that I care about."

He walked back up to Bakura's bed, sitting down beside Bakura once again. Marik's pleading, lilac eyes searched Bakura's face. "Help me. I know, I know you don't give two shits about my problems, but there's something about you that . . . I feel like I can trust y—"

Bakura cupped each one of his hands around Marik's cheeks and pulled their mouths together. He couldn't bare it anymore, watching Marik talk and not touching him. Marik moaned, leaning forward into the kiss and following it with another. Bakura inhaled, Marik smelled the same only accented with a smoky cologne that held undertones of charred oak-casks and bourbon. He tasted the same as well. Bakura only pulled away when the claws piercing his soul twisted hard enough to make him gasp.

He looked away from Marik. "Even a monster like me understands the importance of family."

When he glanced back at Marik he saw his partner panting, face flushed through his copper complexion and golden hair tousled around his cheeks. "Does that mean you'll help me?"

Bakura smirked. "I doubt your other half will agree to hand over the Rod. Might as well use you to find a way past his God card."

Marik snorted, standing to his feet. "Yes, I'm sure that's your only reason – my Rod."

Bakura untangled his lower half from the sheet tucked around him. "And your body. You said I'd need both to get what I wanted."

Marik snickered, smoothing his hair back in place with the palm of his head. "I'll tell you what, after we win you can have my body and take exactly what you want from it."

Bakura raised an eyebrow. "I assume you're referring to the secret on your back?"

"Of course, what else could I be referring to?"

Bakura tried to stand, but his body was still weak from Slifer's attack. His knees buckled and Marik caught him before he could fall. A delighted noise slipped past Bakura's lips when he felt Marik's arm around him. He looked up while Marik looked down, and before Bakura could say something sardonic, Marik pushed Bakura against the wall and kissed him again.

Marik slid his fingers into Bakura's white hair, speaking against Bakura's lips. "I can't help but think of moonlight when I look at you."

"I know."

They kissed for a moment longer until Marik pulled away. He pressed his hand against his forehead. "We can't stand here any longer. Let's go."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***AN: It seems like it's sometimes forgotten that Pegasus got the Millennium Eye *in Kul Elna* (at least in the manga, I don't know about the anime). So, it's not a ruin left to rot in the desert; people live in Kul Elna during the YuGiOh plot.***


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***AN: In Egyptian mythology the Pharaoh was the incarnation of Horus. I think this is why Atem's main god card is Slifer (who's associated with Osiris who was Horus' father). Horus' main rival was Set. I think Takahashi meant for Seto to be that rival adversary character (because of the name), but Bakura fits the archetype for Set better than Kaiba does. True, Atem and Seto were rivals in Egypt and in modern times, but Bakura is Atem's true antagonist.
> 
> Set was a god of desert, storm, and chaos (making him my favorite of the Egyptian pantheon). As a god, Set's supposed to be a "bad guy" but he spends every night protecting Ra and making sure the sun rises in the morning. It kinda reminds me of how Bakura is suppose to be a "bad guy" but he protects Marik from Yami Marik. Notice how it's even night time during Bakura's Shadow Game with Y.M. And how they're on a sort of ship [blimp] (Ra traveled through the underworld on a raft, or boat every night). It fits pretty well with the Ra/Set myth. Marik even holds the Ra card, and Yami Marik stealing Marik's body and Ra card symbolizes Apep trying to steal back the sun. So basically I'm saying we should all ship Ra and Set – just kidding.***

They lost again. Bakura imagined it'd be like the stories Old Sister would tell him on rainy days. In the fables, Apep used to rule the sun until Ra took over the position of sun god. Since then, Apep spent every night trying to eat the sun, so Set traveled through the underworld with Ra to battle the serpent. Every morning they won and Ra lifted the sun back into the sky. Bakura wanted to be Set, protecting his sun-god from the darkness and rage.

But this wasn't a story and Bakura would know no happy endings. Instead of seeing dawn, he and Marik were swallowed by the darkness. And the most bitter part? It was better that they lost, and Bakura knew it was better. Had he won, Marik's body would have disappeared and his soul with him, but Bakura wasn't worried about his own borrowed body. He still had one destined battle against the Pharaoh, so he knew he'd return somehow. He also knew that meant the Pharaoh would beat Marik's other half during the finals.

The thought was like wine soured to vinegar in his mouth, that the Pharaoh would be the one to rescue the ancient thief's love. Bakura should have been the one to save Marik, but the machinations of gods were difficult to battle, and the thief wasn't meant to keep Marik, or Mehen; Bakura was betrothed to the evil intelligence in the Ring.

They stood in darkness.

Bakura looked down at his hands, nut brown instead of milk-white. A mild shimmer emanated from Ryou's and Marik's skin, the inner light of their souls . . . Bakura's skin only reflected the light of the other two. He was soulless, lightness. Nevertheless, he was himself in the Shadows and not a distorted reflection of his host.

Ryou attacked him with a crushing embrace. The spirit of the thief stood stiff and in shock – at the hug and at the thrilled laughter that accompanied it. Ryou scuffled the thief's hair as if he were Ryou's kid brother.

Bakura gave Ryou's fingers a light slap to get his hand away from the thief's white hair. "Stop that. What the hell's wrong with you?"

Ryou kept laughing. "I'm sorry. It's just nice – to get to meet you like this. I'm so happy." He glanced at Marik who stood with wide, unblinking eyes at Bakura. Ryou grabbed one of Marik's hands and patted it. "Don't worry, Marik. I know you said you're afraid of the dark, but my other half won't let anything bad happen to you, and Yugi will save us. I promise he will. You'll see."

Marik's lilac eyes flicked towards Ryou's direction before zip-lining back to stare at Bakura.

Ryou released his hand, a knowing smile on his pale continence. "Well, I feel like a third wheel standing here with both of you. I think I'll go exploring." Ryou turned to leave.

Bakura reached out for him, but Ryou slipped through his grasp as easily as a ghost from Kul Elna. "Get back here. We shouldn't split up."

Ryou shrugged. "I appreciate your concern. Should I call you Bakura, as well? It sounds weird, but not as weird as 'spirit'." He started walking away again. "But I'll be fine on my own. I have all your memories, so I should be able to summon my  _Ka_ if I need protecting. See ya!" Ryou waved, grin too big for his slender face.

Bakura slumped his shoulders in defeat. "I guess I'll go after him if I hear him scream."

He glanced at Marik, starting when he noticed that Marik's wide eyes were glassed over as tears slipped down his cheeks. Bakura cupped the side of Marik's face. "Marik?"

Marik's mouth opened as if he couldn't breath. It took a moment before he spoke. "I know you . . . I know you from my dreams."

"Dreams?" Bakura asked.

"Yes. I grew up in a tomb, and there was a hallway that terrified me. I wouldn't walk through it without Rishid or Ishizu because I had nightmares that I died in that hallway . . . in those dreams, you were always with me. You were crying." Marik grabbed Bakura's white hair. "You called me Mehen – that was me, wasn't it? Those weren't dreams, were they?"

"No, they weren't dreams."

Marik looked at the thief for a long time. The breath shuddered from his lungs as he exhaled. "Bakura you're . . . you're – I knew you – I know you. Oh my sweet moon, how did I forget you?" Marik swallowed Bakura's lower lip.

Bakura heard himself moan. He sank into the feeling, losing himself to the nirvana of Marik's kiss, but when Marik's free hand tried to caress Bakura's chest, the thief winced. Marik pulled back enough to see what was wrong and noticed the bruises and puncture marks on the thief's chest. Five holes rent Bakura's sternum in the same location as the scars on his host's body.

Marik ran his fingers along one of the bloodless holes. "What is this wound?"

"His claws are in me, all the time."

Marik shook his head. "Shit, you really did become half a demon, didn't you? I never believed you."

Bakura allowed himself to nuzzle against Marik's neck. He didn't care that it made the marks in his chest burn as he did it. He needed to be close to Marik. Bakura sighed. "How much do you remember?"

"From before? Fragments, mostly what I dreamed as a child. Dying . . . and games, and fights, and . . ." Marik chuckled. "When I was sailing towards Domino I started having a few more interesting dreams." Marik used the pad of his thumb to trace up the thief's Adonis belt. "I'm sure you can imagine what kind of dreams those were."

Bakura shuddered. "Imagine? Marik, I remember those nights."

"Why didn't you say something before?"

Bakura shook his head. "Would you have believed me? Besides, I only remembered after Slifer attacked me. I wasn't meant to." A tired smile strained Bakura's lips. "I wish I hadn't remembered at all."

Marik scowled. "Why?"

Bakura ran his hands through Marik's hair, letting the golden strands stretch out like rays of sunlight. "It's like going blind and getting used to the darkness, but one day you wake up and see one last sunrise before you lose your sight for the rest of your life. This moment is beautiful, but cruel."

Marik clutched Bakura to his own chest. "I'll stay here. I'll let the darkness take me so I can stay here with you."

"No you will not," Bakura snapped. "I didn't give you half my soul to squander it on the darkness. I was capable of that myself."

"It's not your choice – it's mine. I'll let my other half win. Why not? What do I care? I want to be wherever you are."

"The sun can't share the night with the moon, Marik. You're going to get out of this and live."

Marik clenched his jaw and narrowed his eyes at Bakura just as he used to 3,000 years before. "And how do you expect that to happen? Are your stupid gods going to save me?"

"I wish, then I could be grateful. More like than not it'll be the Pharaoh, so I can only be bitter about it."

Marik threw his head back and laughed, but it was a cruel noise without mirth. "If you think the Pharaoh is going to help me after I tried to kill him then you're a fool."

Bakura grinned, new memories awakening as he argued with Marik. "Then I'm a happy fool."

Marik curled his nails into his palms, his anger burning in his eyes. "You bastard. You stupid, selfish bastard. I don't  _want_ to be saved by the Pharaoh like a princess.  _We_ were supposed to defeat the Pharaoh. I don't need a dream to remember that part. We were supposed kill the Pharaoh and surpass the gods. I was going to take you across the seas to new lands and drink foreign wine from your lips."

"I know."

"Fuck you, Bakura. You don't care. You're too hell-bent on self-fulfilling destiny."

Bakura grabbed Marik's shoulders, forcing Marik to look at him. "Yes. I. Am. Because even a monster like me understands the importance of family, and I need to save mine. What about you? While you're here, what's going to happen to that idiot, bald brother of yours that you were so worried about saving?"

Marik looked away from Bakura. "Ishizu helped me hide him somewhere safe. I'm still controlling the girl."

Bakura didn't want to admit it, but he was glad. He liked the thought of Marik with family. "And how would they feel if you stayed here?"

Marik held an extra edge to his expressions compared to Mehen, a sharpness honed by a crueler life. "Don't. Don't you dare make me choose between you or them."

"You belong with them. "

"And I belong with you."

Bakura held his breath. He exhaled and stared at the darkness around them. "You belong with them. Maybe I loved you when you were Mehen, but you're Marik now. It's not the same. I'm not the same. A demon doesn't need love."

Marik grabbed Bakura's cheeks and forced their faces so close that their noses almost touched. "You're lying. Do you think it's been so long that I can't tell that you're full of shit?"

Bakura didn't blink. "Go and fight your other half. Try to take back your mind. Stop depending on me to save you and do it yourself for once."

Marik pushed Bakura backwards, hard. The thief stumbled a few steps before regaining his balance. "Funny, I don't remember you being so weak before. "

Marik charged again, this time knocking them both into the blackness that served as ground. Marik raised his fist, but Bakura caught it. The thief bucked his hips high in order to throw Marik's weight and send him sprawling sideways. The Tomb-Guardian lunged towards Bakura again. They grappled, rolling and pushing and pinning each other into the Shadows, but neither man was able to maintain dominance for long. At first Bakura grunted and cursed as they tumbled along the endless expanse of black and violet, but the experience was too familiar, too much like the leisurely afternoons spent wrestling with Mehen on the riverbank. Bakura began laughing.

"Fuck you!" Marik shouted into Bakura's face.

Marik's ire only made Bakura laugh harder. He held one hand to his side to contain his chuckling and the other hand to his chest to suppress the hot-iron feeling of Zorc's invisible claws.

Marik smacked at Bakura's shoulders, avoiding the wounds in his chest, and growled into Bakura's ear, "if half my consciousness wasn't currently in a duel against the Pharaoh, I'd fuck that smirk off your face right here in the Shadows."

"What?" Bakura jerked his body into a sitting position. "You're dueling the Pharaoh? Dammit, Marik why didn't you tell me?"

Marik frowned and stared at the darkness below them. "You were wrong, you know. The Pharaoh won't save me. The only way for him to win is if I die."

Bakura cupped his hand around Marik's chin and lifted Marik's face. "The only way for him to win, or the way you want him to win?"

Marik turned away to free himself from Bakura's touch. "I don't deserve . . . to live."

"Does anyone?"

"You don't understand –"

"Shhh." Bakura leaned forward and held Marik. They sat in the sable mists.

Marik sat half in Bakura's lap. The thief's fingers traced patterns over Marik's scarred back – a habit from their former life together. It wasn't until his third sweep over the markings that Bakura realized the scars formed a pattern.

Bakura looked up. "Marik?"

Marik nodded. "The Pharaoh's memories. The information you need to open the Door and fulfill your damned prophecy."

"And if you die - I fail."

Marik pressed his forehead into Bakura's shoulder. "It was too much. My initiation. It wasn't only the pain; it was how the knife made me feel trapped."

"I know." Bakura spoke into Marik's hair. "I could tell when I met you, before I realized who you were. "

"But it's no excuse for everything I've done . . . I deserve this darkness, more than you do."

A bitter sound choked out of Bakura's throat. "Trust me. I've earned this fate. " He lifted Marik's face up and kissed the curve of his jaw. "But if you give up, there'll be no one left to try and save me."

"You never believed I could save you. "

Bakura shrugged. "You could always prove me wrong. "

A little smile broke across Marik's face. "I do enjoy proving you wrong."

Bakura's chest hurt. Not from Zorc, the current pain in his chest ached worse than anything the demon could do. It was the feeling of goodbye, the pain of instinctively knowing his time with Marik was ending. He lighted his lips on Marik's fingertips and his collarbone. He smoothed his fingers along Marik's jaw and in his hair. These were the last memories he'd have to carry him through eternity and he drank in the feeling of Marik like a man gasping for a last breath before he drowned.

Marik focused far into the ink-thick shadows. "Rishid. He's awake."

Marik sat still, listening to something Bakura couldn't hear.

Bakura grazed his lips across Marik's mouth. "Goodbye, Marik. "

A strangled sound caught in Marik's throat as if he wanted to argue but knew better. "I haven't forgotten my promises to you – any of them. "

"You have the Ring. I'll see and hear anything you tell the Pharaoh."

Marik nodded, understanding Bakura's implications. "Don't worry, I'm an incredible actor. Should I keep the Ring?"

Bakura flashed Marik a wicked grin. "We'd have fun if you did, but no. Give it to the Pharaoh."

"Shouldn't I at least give it to your host?"

"You'd look suspicious. Don't worry, Ryou will find me."

Marik began fading. The shimmer from his body grew translucent. "Bakura?"

"Yeah?"

"You're an asshole."

He smirked. His hair gray in the growing darkness, but his eyes still gleamed. "I love you, too, Marik. "

"I thought you only loved Mehen?"

"I'm a demon. I lied."

"I'll find you. I'll give you the secret on my back so you can have your damned battle with the Pharaoh, but afterward I'll find you."

He disappeared before Bakura could retort. Sitting in the darkness, the thief felt Zorc coil around his soul in a way that mocked how Diabound used to wrap around him. Bakura thought it funny, that Necrophades couldn't appear in the presence of Ryou's or Marik's inner light. The demon caressed him, trying to replace the memory of Marik's touch with his own. Bakura blinked in the dark. "You'll get what you want now. The secret to the Door that will flood everything with darkness."

" _Yes_."

Necrophades' touch glided gently across Bakura's skin. It still helped numb the pain of Marik's absence, but his touch also made the bile in Bakura's stomach sour. He wanted to throw the creature off him and scream for Ryou or Marik or anyone who could bring a light to him and cast the darkness away, but instead of shouting, he waited for the proper moment to return to the Ring. Although Marik wore the Ring, Bakura still resembled a mangled, darker version of his host.

Ishizu spoke to her brother. "Marik, it is time to fulfill your final duty."

"Yes," Marik agreed as he walked to meet the Pharaoh. "Yugi, the spells I cast on your friends have been broken. They'll regain consciousness soon." Marik held up the Ra card. "And now for your prize."

Bakura chuckled, leaning against Marik's shoulder and enjoying the last, stolen touch of his partner. "And mine, too," Bakura whispered in Marik's ear, knowing Marik heard him although the other male's face showed no reaction to Bakura's words.

Marik's lilac eyes remained focused on the Pharaoh. "Here it is Yugi, my god card, the Sun Dragon, Ra."

Marik closed his eyes; his copper fingers hooked underneath the black fabric of his shirt. "And this is the key to the King's memories – which my clan has protected for centuries – look closely."

Marik maneuvered his shirt around the Ring, careful not to disturb the golden relic hanging from his neck as he removed his clothing. Bakura sighed. It wasn't fair that Marik was an inch away but too far to reach. It wasn't fair, but it was right.

What wasn't right was the way Marik had to stand before the Pharaoh, half nude and objectified, a scroll for a careless prophecy. Invisible, Bakura stood behind Marik as if he could shield his partner while Ishizu explained the carvings on Marik's back to the Pharaoh. Bakura's jaw hurt as he clenched it in anger; the images on Marik's skin blurred. He preferred when they were lash-strokes, as meaningless as the pain Mehen endured when he received them.

Marik slid his fingers along the rope of the Millennium Ring, his eyes focusing on a fixed point near Rishid's feet. "My duty is still not done. Here . . ." Marik turned in order to face the Pharaoh. He extended the Rod out with one hand, while holding the Ring close to his stomach with his other hand. "Take my Rod, our clan has treasured this Millennium Item for three thousand years. Now it's yours." He paused half a breath. "The Millennium Ring as well."

Then there was only darkness as Bakura waited in the Ring. He curled into Necrophades hold like the broken doll held by Dark Necrofear.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ***Wow. We're already on the last chapter. There's a time skip here from Battle City to right after Ryou discovers he can't go with the others into the Pharaoh's memories. This is a long chapter, but I didn't want to break it up. Hopefully this is a satisfactory ending. ***

Ryou ran, tear-blind, out of the museum. Bakura had to take control to keep him from running into traffic. He took them home, but as soon as they stepped into Ryou's apartment, Bakura's host stole his body and ran across the room. He crashed to the carpet and sat beneath the craft table that, just the day before, housed a replica of the Egypt the thief remembered from his life. With his back against a table leg, Ryou curled his knees into his chest and keened. The tears wracked his slender frame, spiraling out of control and into hyperventilation.

As a spirit, Bakura knelt in front of his host and frowned. Bakura hadn't cried since Mehen's death, and before that he hadn't cried since that morning of ash and ghosts. Even without the demon coiled around the remainder of his essence, Bakura didn't know how to deal with the hysterics in front of him.

He grabbed Ryou's shoulders and gave him an irritated shake. "Stop it. What is wrong with you? Stop it."

Ryou opened his mouth to speak, but only managed gasps and heart-broken sounds. He clamped his arms around the spirit's neck and cried into his translucent chest. Bakura sat stiff-spined in the boy's arms.

"I–

"– I could h–"

There the words deconstructed into a hiss of tears. Ryou's face had gone scarlet from crying and lack of breath.

Bakura stroked Ryou's hair. "Shhh, shhhh."

At this point even Necrophades was willing to allow Bakura to show his host kindness in order to calm the boy. His sincerity and grief burned through his body and into the Ring like an angel's flaming sword. The demon shrank deeper into the relic.

Bakura tried to think of what his mother would have done, but he couldn't remember. Bakura pulled the hairs sticking to Ryou's damp cheeks away from his face. "Did you want to go with your friends that badly?"

"Yes." Ryou managed the word, but it also ended in a hiss of emotion, and it took him a minute to gasp out additional words. "Wanted - t-to save - you."

Bakura couldn't help the small smile on his lips. "No Ryou."

"Yes!" Ryou argued. "If I could g-go - show Yugi what happened - your village - if he saw . . ." Ryou sniffed the tears back and sucked air into his lungs for speech. "Yugi'd help me. W-w-we could think of som-something. We could save everyone. "

"You're already helping everyone."

"Everyone except you isn't everyone!" Ryou shrieked.

Everything felt tight in Bakura's being, as if he could weep for himself, as if he could finally express the pain he'd held for thousands of years, but he remembered his anger and it save him. Instead of shedding tears, Bakura snorted. "Quit it. Do you think you're better than the gods? Who are you to cry over a soul they fed to the darkness?"

Ryou jumped to his feet. "I'm Ryou Bakura and if the gods truly abandon you then yes, I'm better than them. What kind of gods would forsake their creation?"

Bakura laughed, sardonic and bitter. "Smart gods. This is how nature works. Some die, some live, there's balance in Ma'at's scales."

Ryou dropped back to his knees and covered his face to hide his tears.

Bakura stroked his hair. "It's not all bad. Thanks to you, I remembered who I was, and who Marik was. When this is over, I'll get to be myself again." He gestured to his current image. "This is more like a character I'm playing in an RPG."

The game reference made Ryou laugh. "You've been calling yourself Bakura. Does that make your Egyptian character Thief King Bakura?"

Bakura smirked at the thought. "Why not? Symbolism tends to go over the Pharaoh's head anyway. At this point, I might as well troll him a bit."

Ryou sniffed. "I'm going to miss you."

"I know." That was as close to 'I'll miss you too' as the spirit could manage. "But Ryou, you need to go to sleep now. I don't want you in this final game."

Ryou snorted. "You mean you don't trust me."

"Of course not. You cheat when you DM."

"You're one to talk. I only cheat to save my friends."

"I know, that's why you can't be in this game, Ryou."

Ryou shook his head. "There's still one last option." He looked at the spirit, his tear-stained eyes dark and unblinking. "I could take your place."

Bakura grabbed each side of Ryou's skull, pressing their foreheads together. "No. Go to sleep, Ryou."

Ryou shook his head. "You can't make me this time."

Bakura tried to take over Ryou's body, forcing his host into their subconscious. "Ryou."

"No."

"I'm not letting you sacrifice yourself."

"Why not? That's exactly what you're doing."

"I'm trying not to hurt you, but if you keep fighting I'll do what I have to."

"If you stayed you could find Marik. Have your battle, and in the end put my soul in the Ring. Go be with him."

Bakura pushed Ryou away. "Fine. If you want to be damned so bad, fine. We'll switch. Just give me complete control until then."

A few last tears cartwheeled down Ryou's cheek. "You're lying."

Bakura grinned and crossed his arms over his chest.

"I hate the gods." Ryou cried, dry sobs, his tears spent.

Bakura used the moment to slip back into control. This time Bakura's host submitted, sealing himself in his soulroom.

Bakura wanted to write some sort of goodbye letter. He took a sheet of paper and sat at the craft table. After staring for a long time at the white surface, he jotted down 'thank you' and left the rest of the paper empty.

He slipped on Ryou's coat and walked out the door.

_Twice you will fight the Pharaoh for the land of Kemet, and twice you will lose, and twice you will plunge into the darkness – the womb of Isfet, the Shadow Realm._

He played his parts, a thief, a shadow priest, and a dark god. He wanted to win. It was like his battle against Anubis. The god did not hold back against the child, nor would the spirit hold back against the manifestation of Horus. If the gods wanted their destiny to pass, they'd have to earn it; otherwise, what was the point to all the suffering? If the gods weren't stronger than Zorc, then maybe they should die. So he played the ultimate Shadow Game against the Pharaoh, fought over the land of Egypt one last time, and had it just been Bakura, had it just been the Pharaoh, then the thief's spirit would have won. Bakura was the stronger of the two.

But they hadn't played alone. NPC's played the game as well, Yugi and his friends along with a piece of the soul he'd given to Zorc and infused into the Puzzle.

Yugi was stronger than Necrophades.

He defeated Zorc in a duel, and rescued the Pharaoh's lost  _ren_  – Atem.

Thus Bakura lost. Relief washed over him in the dark of the Ring. He hadn't wanted to lose. He was too proud to accept anything less than victory. Nevertheless, he lost. It was over, and he didn't have to be strong anymore. He curled into a ball and waited for the Ring to return to the Tablet with the other Items, sealing him in the darkness for eternity. Necrophades prowled the circumference of the Ring, wanting out, wanting one more chance to crash all existence into a darkness worse than the belly of Ammit, but there was nothing the demon could do without a host.

That made a secret, bitter smile slip over Bakura's face. Necrophades also lost, balance would be restored after three-thousand years, and there was nothing Zorc could do to destroy that. The world had become a thing that used lap tops instead of spell tombs and that meant no more Shadow Magic, and that meant there'd never be another Kul Elna. What was a lost soul compared to that? Compared to the knowledge that soon his family would be freed from their suffering?

The creature in the darkness sensed Bakura's defiant smile and lashed out with claws and teeth. It hurt. It hurt bad enough to leave Bakura's mind a blank, white blurr until Zorc pulled his claws away. But it didn't hurt as much as watching his village burn, and it didn't hurt as much as watching Mehen die, and it didn't hurt as much as seeing the hieratic scarred into Marik's back, nor did it hurt as much as watching Ryou have a nervous breakdown on the floor because Bakura couldn't be saved. Nothing Zorc could do would ever hurt as much as what the pharaohs and the gods had already done. Bakura was invincible.

* * *

Marik smiled. He smiled so much his face hurt. He smiled and pretended to be happy so much that he started to worry that Namu would grow into his next personality - an alter ego of light instead of darkness. It wasn't that he was unhappy. In all save one thing, Marik was content with his life, but that one thing left an open wound bleeding inside him. One that would never heal enough to scar.

Once Yugi completed his Ceremonial Duel a portion of the anxiety nettling Marik's mind would settle. Bakura went through too much to redeem the souls of his village to have something go wrong at the last moment. As a tomb keeper, Marik knew his sense of duty should belong to the Pharaoh, but in Marik's heart, Atem was only a key to open the way for the spirits of Kul Elna.

Seeing Ryou almost undid Marik's happy facade. Bakura's former host smiled and laughed - Marik wanted to punch him. Something about Ryou's smile infuriated Marik, as if he didn't have the right to enjoy his freedom when Bakura stayed imprisoned. Perhaps he was projecting his own guilt onto his lover's host, but that didn't stop Marik from knocking on Ryou's door that night as they sailed to the duel grounds. He wasn't sure what he planned to do, scream at Ryou, ask how Bakura lost in the end, demand Ryou help him steal the Ring in order to rescue Bakura's soul. Whatever his plans may have been, they all evaporated the moment Ryou opened the door and saw Marik. Ryou's smile held for one second then wavered and crashed around his jaw. He stepped back to let Marik into his room. Marik's shoulders slumped forward, his anger diffused, and he stepped inside.

The tears beading around Ryou's eyes shouldn't have surprised Marik. Marik himself had spent most the day smiling for Yugi, why should it have surprised him that Ryou played the same game?

"I'm sorry." Ryou took a box of tissues from his bed to press against his eyes. "I tried to do something. I wanted to save him, but . . ." Ryou shrugged. "In the end I was afraid to do much. I couldn't bare the thought of jeopardizing his family." He looked at Marik. "And he always seemed so sure of himself, y'know? Like his way was best."

"Yeah, I know," Marik agreed, relieved he had someone to speak with.

Ryou threw the box of Kleenex on the floor. "In the end, I did nothing. H-how can I endure that? Knowing that he's suffering and I let him go? You know what's worse? His memories are fading in my mind. All that's left of him is slipping through my memory as if it were a dream. I wrote down what I could, but I'm sure I missed parts. I can't stand this!"

Marik sat on the bed beside Ryou and rested a hand on his pale shoulder. "I'm going to save him."

"I thought of that, but even if we managed to steal the Ring long enough to free him, how do we know that won't ruin his family's chances for peace?"

"You're right." Marik stared at the floor, bitter with the truth. "We can't interfere with the Ceremonial Duel, but afterward there's nothing to stop me from trying to save him."

"I've been searching through all the magic I can find. Looking for some way back to the Shadow Realm." Ryou shook his head in frustration. "But even if I find a way, the Shadows are infinite. How could we find him?"

"I can." Marik touched his chest. "We share part of one soul. Find me a way into the void, and I'll rescue him. I vowed to, thousands of years ago."

* * *

He didn't move. He lay in the dark curled into himself and waited. Bakura waited until he felt a shift in the existence around him, and an undoing, and suddenly the small Ring of darkness was limitless.

"At least it's over," he whispered to no one.

He thought of his family – family once more, mother and father once more. He thought of the old men who loved games and the younger men who loved wrestling. He thought of Old Sister by her fire, and the girls braiding their hair and oiling their skin until it gleamed dark and beautiful in the sunlight. He thought about his mother's bread and her healing talents, and his father teaching him to train his  _ka._  Would they know? He didn't need recognition for his actions, and he wanted them to have peace in Aaru, but there was a piece of Bakura – still a child weeping in ash – that hoped they'd realize he wasn't with them . . . and miss him, if only for a moment before the wonders of paradise swept them away.

He also thought about Diabound, his  _ka_ , his soul. Most people never knew the joy of summoning their life essence into a physical manifestation, but Bakura couldn't remember a time when his  _ka_  hadn't been part of him, until he sacrificed that part of himself to Necrophades.

But perhaps not all of himself. He used half his life energy to save Mahen, and Marik proved that a piece of the thief and a piece of Mahen would exist together always.

And that was the closest to a happy ending that Bakura would ever know.

The endless black made Bakura's eyes burn. He closed them and tried to lose his thoughts in the darkness. He thought Necrophades would have stayed coiled around him as the demon had done in the Ring; however, now that Bakura served no purpose the demon left him alone, as indifferent to the thief as the Shadows swirling around him. He almost missed the closeness of the demon. He didn't want to be alone.

He touched the wounds in his chest. Bakura opened his eyes to look at his hands, wondering if they were his original brown or Ryou's pale white, but only black welcomed his sight. Without his ka, Bakura generated no light and saw nothing. He felt his cheek, and his scars raised up to greet his fingers. He smiled. At least enough of his ba remained for him to maintain his original appearance.

He curled back into a ball and tried to sleep as he'd done in the Ring, but without the demon numbing his memories, flashes of his old life and his brief time in Domino replayed in his mind. The fire, the gods, Mehen, Ryou, Marik, everything rushed through him, and there was no demon to numb him, and no prophecy to motivate him, and no hatred to save him. There was simply the memories and the emotions they stirred, and Bakura didn't have to be strong for his clan anymore. He let the tears burn his face and disappear into the dark, and he realized that true suffering wasn't the darkness, and wasn't the inevitable madness. True suffering was separation.

The tears wouldn't stop, but he didn't need them to. He had eternity to cry.

* * *

Marik buried his face in his pillow, trying to hold onto the dream. The desert, the storm, the churning river, his sweet moon standing in the water with opened arms and a playful grin, Marik wanted to be Mehen for a day, to drink beer and kiss under the moonlight, but when he opened his eyes he'd be Marik and Bakura would be lost in the Shadows. They searched and searched for a way into the darkness, Marik had torn apart the records kept by his ancestors, but neither he nor Ryou could find what they needed.

"It's time to wake up, my golden light."

A finger tucked a lick of hair behind Marik's ear and he jerked up, slipping his hand under his pillow and curling his fingers around the handle of his pocket knife. Marik's jaw hung open when he looked at the intruder. "H-how?"

The thief grinned. He wore a scarlet suit tailored just-so to fit his frame, and he wore an indigo tie with a golden pin. The thief leaned closer to kiss Marik, but the tomb guardian brought the knife tip up to the dip in other man's throat.

"Nice try, you look like him, but the scar is wrong." Marik flicked the chimera tie-pin. "You're Set."

The god grinned and used his fingers to mark the two horizontal scars missing from his face. "You're good. Most people see what they want to. Anpu gave him these two scars so I couldn't mock them - it's one of the rules I'm following today."

"You have a lot of nerve coming here. I hate you. I hate all of you bastards."

Set scratched the back of his head, covered in Bakura's beautiful, white hair. "I don't blame you for hating me. I'm the one that set off the trap that killed you three thousand years ago."

"You? Why?"

Set winked and smirked at Marik. "To set a string of events into motion that ended with you and me here, in bed together." he licked his lips. "And might I say, you do look fetching."

Marik pulled his arm back. He aimed the blade for Set's face, but the god caught the naked steal and allowed blood to roll into the sleeve of his matching suit. "Still working on your temper, I see."

"You need to go to hell." Marik struggled with his knife.

"Sorta why I'm here, but the plan was to send you."

Marik released the switch blade. "What do you mean?"

He shrugged. "Maybe the other gods can sit back and pat themselves on the shoulders for a job well done, but I'm not satisfied. Yes, all the trapped souls have moved on. Yes, Ma'at's scales are leveled. Yes, the dark god threatening us all has been banished. So what? If everything gets resolved at this point it'd be boring."

"And heaven forbid you suffer boredom." The words pushed through Marik's lips with such vehemence that his voice sounded like a snarl.

Set smiled, not his typical trickster's grin, but a meek expression that truly reminded Marik of his sweet moon. "Hey, give me a break. I'm supposed to be a god of chaos. I can't just say something stupid and do-goody like it doesn't feel right leaving him to rot while the rest of us celebrate."

All the fight drained from Marik's arms. He hung limp in Set's grip. His eyes stung but he held his grief inside. "It's not right. It's not. He loved the gods even after all he suffered. Especially you, always running out in the damn lightning like an idiot. How can you live with it? How can you sit in your false paradise as enjoy eternity while he shivers in the darkness?"

Set took Marik's knife and cupped his nut brown hands around the blade. When he returned the object to Marik it was a black key with the same chimera creature adorning the end of the key as Set wore as a tie-pin.

"Any door will work, but you only get one chance. If you fail to find him; he's lost."

Marik looked up at the god disguised as his lover. The god brushed his fingers along Marik's cheek and then stole a kiss. Marik slapped him and the god laughed, holding his left cheek.

"It was worth it."

Marik blinked and realized he was alone. He looked at the key and held it to his chest. "One chance."

He thought about telling his siblings, but knew Ishizu would try and talk him out of going. Marik walked across his room and to the nearest door, his closet door. There was no lock or keyhole on the knob, but Marik knew that didn't matter. He held his breath, inserted the key, and opened the door. Cold darkness greeted him. Marik didn't hesitate. He marched through the door.

Marik walked through the sable and plum shadows. He shivered, wearing only a loose pair of cotton slacks he used as sleepwear. Marik looked down at his hands and arms and noticed he glowed brighter than before. He wondered at the fact. He didn't think the Domino City finals had changed him much, but perhaps they had, or maybe his sister was rubbing off on him.

He opened his mouth to call out Bakura's name, but stopped when he realized how futile his efforts would be. Marik closed his eyes instead, trying to feel Bakura.

He wasn't sure how long he walked through the dark. Black and gray mists swirled around his bare feet up to his ankles, but the surface he walked on felt smooth beneath his toes.

"Pretty stupid, to not put on shoes first." He spoke out loud to hear a voice. The silence rang in his head, almost painful. He hadn't noticed last time as he argued and wrestled with Bakura. He couldn't suffer Bakura's soul to stay in such a place. Marik's hands fisted into balls as his eyes strained for something on which to focus.

When he did see something, it wasn't Bakura. A tiny figure sped towards Marik, growing as it neared. Marik blinked, unbelieving. The child screaming and charging at Marik was himself, or rather his darker self.

The child crashed into Marik, beating Marik's chest with small, ten-year-old fists.

"I hate you! I hate you! I hate you!"

"Why are you small?" Marik grabbed the child's wrists to stop his assult.

Instead of answering, the child bit Marik's arm.

Marik growled from the pain of the bite and wrenched his arm free from the teeth.

"I hate you!"

Marik sighed, wondering how he ever allowed this small, angry child to take control of his psyche. "Come here."

He knelt and pulled the darker half to his chest, holding him just as Rishid held Marik years ago after the death of his father.

"Let go!"

"It's okay. It wasn't your fault - it was mine."

"I hate you," the child said again, but as a whimper and not a declaration.

Marik stroked the blonde knives of hair on the child's head. "I shouldn't have sent you here. No one belongs here. Not even you."

The child crushed an eye with a fist, trying to push away the tears that defied his rage and rolled down his ruddy cheeks in plump drops. "I hate . . . it here. Don't leave me here."

They both glowed, equally bright. Marik held his alternate self tighter until he only hugged himself - himself alone. The child was back in Marik's psyche, but as memories and not an alter ego forged by dissociation.

Marik continued to hold himself and weep as he remembered his initiation, more painful than when he died as Mehen, and his body trembled as he remembered killing his father. The shadows on the walls, the smoke, the wink of firelight on steel as Marik's father walked towards him, Ishizu screamed when it happen, and Marik cried for himself, for Rishid, for Ishizu, and even for his father. Marik collapsed into the black mists as he cried for them all.

It wasn't until his sobs slowed and softened that Marik realized he wasn't crying alone. He blinked the burning tears away from his lavender eyes and looked above the chilled, black fog boiling around his body.

Someone else sobbed in the dark; they cast no light of their own, but Marik saw a streak of white hair and dove through the black and pulled the scarlet-clad thief into his arms.

"I found you, my sweet moon." He buried his face in Bakura's hair. "See? You were wrong all along. The sun can pluck the moon from the dark sky."

He wiped the tears away from Bakura's face and traced the outline of his lips.

Bakura looked up at Marik's face, blinking his silver eyes. "Marik? How?"

Marik grabbed Bakura's hands, holding one to Bakura's chest and one to his own. They lay together in the shades of black and gray counting heartbeats.

"Feel that?" Marik asked. "They never stopped beating together. Not since the day you combined them. All I had to do to find you was stop looking - you were already beside me."

"Marik is this real? Oh gods, please don't let this be some trick of the Shadows to torment me."

"Idiot, you know this is real. I did this all to prove you were wrong."

The thief smiled. "A lot of trouble to win an argument."

"But you know how much I love being right."

Bakura struggled into a sitting position and Marik mirrored him. Bakura's trembling fingers stumbled across Marik's jaw and chin and up his cheeks and back down to his throat.

"Marik," Bakura whispered as if it hurt to speak. "Marik."

Marik leaned forward. "Do you believe me now, or are you still afraid I'm a shadow?"

"Marik." Bakura parted his lips.

Marik graced his lips over Bakura's. They held each other close and exchanged breath as their lips glided together.

As they kissed, Bakura began to glow, dim at first, then the light swelled around the thief until he was bright like day. Marik blinked his eyes and realized they sat on the rug in his bedroom, sunlight gilding their hair yellow gold and white gold.

The door opened and Rishid stepped in. "Marik, Ishizu says breakfast is ready and - oh, hello." He nodded at Bakura as if nothing looked amiss with him sitting in Marik's lap. "I better let her know we have a guest."

He disappeared, shutting the door behind him.

A crooked, tickled grin wrinkled Bakura's mouth. "Ah yes, living relatives."

"Yeah. They're nice, but I think it might be time to get my own place." He eyed Bakura. "As soon as we get you clothing that doesn't look like an ancient Egyptian bathrobe. Seriously Bakura, why are you wearing that?"

"Fuck you. I ripped this off a corpse."

"You look better when you're naked and standing in a river."

The former thief stood and dropped the rich, heavy material to the ground, exposing most of his brown body. "Naked can be arranged quick enough. Where's the nearest river?"

Marik smirked. "After breakfast. Ishizu will send Rishid back up if I don't go downstairs soon."

Bakura stared at Marik. "Do you think my clan . . ."

Marik nodded. "According to Set, they've all moved on."

Bakura raised a white eyebrow. "Set?"

Marik nodded. "He gave me a kiss - I mean key. A key to find you in the Shadows."

Bakura laughed. "A kiss? I suppose everything has its price."

He lifted Marik off of his feet and carried him to the bed. Bakura lowered Marik to the mattress, a broad, happy look on his face.

Marik traced the laugh-lines surrounding Bakura's mouth. "Stop smiling like that. You look like an idiot."

"I don't care," answered the thief. He lowered his lips until they floated above Marik's. "I'm about to kiss you, and I thought I'd never be able to kiss you again. Who cares if I look like an idiot?"

They didn't go downstairs until Rashid knocked on the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***So . . . you may want a bit more ending than that? Don't worry, in a few days I'll post an epilogue. It's short, and pretty much PWP, but the story seemed unbalanced without a Thiefshipping lemon, since the Citronshipping got to have one, and it shows that they're happy.***


	10. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ***"i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
> 
> my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
> 
> i go you go,my dear; and whatever is done
> 
> by only me is your doing,my darling)
> 
> i fear no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want
> 
> no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
> 
> and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
> 
> and whatever a sun will always sing is you
> 
> here is the deepest secret nobody knows
> 
> (here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
> 
> and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
> 
> higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)
> 
> and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart
> 
> i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)" ~e.e. cummings***

Bakura held to the ship's side rail and closed his eyes, concentrating on the scent of the ocean - salt and iodine and water. He didn't hear Marik sneak behind him over the waves and wind, and he didn't know Marik stood behind him until Marik's warm arms coiled around Bakura's waist. Bakura kept his eyes closed and sighed at Marik's touch.

Marik traced his lips up Bakura's throat; he nipped at Bakura's ear lobe and whispered, "your hair glows in the moonlight."

Bakura smiled. "I can never tell when you're accidentally repeating a moment and when you're referencing a memory from before."

"Well, history does like to repeat itself, but I do like to remember our old life together, so I guess you'll have to stay in suspense."

Bakura opened his eyes. He turned so he could look at Marik. The blonde smirked and used his body to pin Bakura to the railing. "I have some Veuve Clicuot poured."

Bakura chuckled. "I've never drank a purchased bottle of wine before. This will be an incredibly boring drinking experience. "

Marik turned and walked away, glancing over his shoulder. "You think so? We'll see."

Bakura smirked and followed Marik aft. A blanket covered the deck. Two glasses sat in the center with a plate of red grapes and a white stilton with blueberries blended into the cheese. A battery-powered lantern shed a yellow circle of light around the set-up. Bakura didn't notice the box shape hiding beneath a purple, silk handkerchief until he sat down.

Bakura nodded to the handkerchief. "What's the surprise?"

Marik smirked and took a drink to postpone answering. "Don't ever tell my sister about this."

He pulled the cloth away to reveal a very old, but well kept, sennet bored.

"So? Want to play sennet on a board that used to belong to a king?"

Bakura's teeth flashed as he grinned. "Marik? Did you steal that board out of the tomb your family is sworn to protect?"

Marik rested a palm against his collarbone, mocking hurt feelings as he spoke. "I'll have you know that I am a redeemed man. I would never steal."

Bakura raised a white eyebrow.

Marik pointed to the game. "Look, I'm guarding it. As long as you don't abscond with it I'm more or less doing my job."

Bakura laughed. "I forgive you for buying the champagne, since we're going to play sennet on a stolen game board."

"A guarded game board."

"Indeed."

Marik set the board and Bakura went first. They drank the entire bottle of champagne and ate the fruit and cheese. They played more games than they could count. The last seven they swore would be the last, but then the next game would truly be the last and then the next after that.

Marik looked up at the night above them. "The moon's travelled across the sky."

"Yes, but I took a 3,000 year nap beforehand, so I'm good for one last game if you are."

Marik lay on his stomach, studying Bakura. "You're as relentless as ever."

Bakura lay beside Marik. "You're as beautiful as ever."

Marik pushed the game board away and rolled on top of Bakura. "You have my attention. Continue."

Bakura traced his fingers near the khol lining Marik's eyes. "Did you take anything else from the tomb for 'safe keeping'?"

Marik grinned and brushed the tip of his nose against Bakura's nose. "Perhaps, but I won't just hand the Pharaoh's precious treasures to a scrappy rogue like you."

"I've already claimed the greatest treasure in Egypt. Tomb-trinkets are garbage in comparison."

Marik grazed his bottom lip across Bakura's top lip. He licked his lips afterward, tasting the half kiss and deciding to go back for a full one. Their tongues dabbed at one another. Bakura hooked his legs around Marik's waist.

Soft moans replaced their usual sardonic banter as their lips moved back and forth as rhythmic as the waves against their ship. Marik reached over and clicked off the lantern. The halo of light winked out, yet the sky above them boasted a lighter blue than an hour beforehand. Soon the sky would smolder gray until the sun came and set both sky and water into orange flames.

Marik and Bakura's fingers wandered. When they stumbled upon buttons, or zippers, or belt buckles, they unfasened them until both lay naked in a knot of limbs. The salt-air tugged at their hair and cooled the sweat from their bodies. Marik used the tip of his cock to nudge and tease Bakura's entrance, dragging gasps and moans from the thief's mouth.

"Hurry," Bakura ordered. "Hurry, Marik, hurry. I want you right now."

Marik pulled away, standing and smirking down at Bakura. "Y'know, one day you're going to call out Mehen by mistake and I'll never let you live it down."

Bakura's retort came in the form of a lusty, full-on stare with his silver-gray eyes. He spread his cinnamon-brown legs wide open, a blatant invitation, an offering to his own, personal sun-god. Bakura made a show of licking his palm and using his moistened grip to slide up and down his shaft.

Marik bit his bottom lip, pupils dilated wide to stare at his lover in the not-yet-dawn blue of the ending night's sky. "You make a good counter-argument. "

He turned and ran below deck in order to fetch the lube they kept near their bed. Marik almost crashed into Bakura in his hurry to return to their make-shift pallet.

Bakura laughed at Marik until the chilled shock of lube dripping onto his entrance transformed his laughter into a surprised gasp.

"Fucker."

Marik laughed, but only for a moment, his attention focused on Bakura. "Mmmm, my sweet moon."

Bakura hiked his hips into the air.

"Marik," he said the name like a four letter word.

Marik worked his fingers along Bakura's thigh and towards his opening.

"Skip that," Bakura growled, "take me."

Marik ignored him, prepping Bakura regardless. Bakura bucked against Marik's hand and continued to stroke himself.

His eagerness made it impossible for Marik to wait longer. He coated his erection until slick and slipped into Bakura's sweat-dappled body.

"'Bout time!" Bakura shouted, his voice breathy and excited.

"Got to it when I was ready." Marik italicized the personal pronoun with a hard, strong thrust that made Bakura cry out like a church bell.

Since Bakura stroked himself before they began, he didn't last long. After he shouted Marik's name and relaxed his shoulders back onto the blanket below, Marik wiped Bakura's stomach and chest with the silk handkerchief.

Marik leaned closer and moved faster. Bakura still screamed and moaned even after his climax, taking pleasure from each one of Marik's thrusts. They held together as close as they could while still moving.

Marik held his breath, mouth gaping in a mute scream. His eyes wrinkled shut, and his hips slowed to clumsy, awkward jerks. He stayed between Bakura's legs and buried his face in the thief's white hair.

Their hearts beat in union as their pants simultaneously slowed to deep breaths. Above the sky paled to light gray and the ship rocked them to sleep still locked together.

When Bakura first woke he was afraid to open his eyes. He felt the warmth of sunlight hitting his closed lids. Part of his mind feared he'd wake to a ruined village, a child again, but the waves and smells reminded him that he was out to sea, sailing to Japan to visit Ryou before he and Marik explored the world together.

His other fear was more certain. That he'd wake up to claws and shadows. Bakura opened his eyes; the sun sat dead center in the sky. He felt Marik's hand caressing his cheek and turned to face his lover.

"This is real, right?" his voice tremored as he spoke.

"Are you going to ask me that every morning for the rest of our lives?"

"It's hard to believe I'm here." Bakura looked up at the sun. "In the light."

Marik teased Bakura's already wild hair. "I told you, didn't I? I also promised you foreign lands. So where do you want to go after we leave Japan?"

Bakura grinned. It was the first time he was able to think of the future without duty and darkness fretting his mind. "I don't know. Anywhere . . . everywhere." His grin shifted into a smirk. He turned towards Marik. "First, let's go back to bed."


End file.
